Can we keep him, Daddy?
by moonlitememories
Summary: 25 years old, and things are going good for Stiles. He's got a life in New York that is all he could ask for, and a daughter who lights up his world. That is, till his father gets sick, and Stiles is forced to move his family back home to the very place he ran away from all those years ago. Rated M for violence, language and sexual themes, reader discretion is advised.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello dear readers and friends of mine, reviewer's after my own heart!**

**I, surprisingly, got a relatively high number of views on Love is, and with such, the thought struck me to try my hand at something else, because I do love me some Sterek, and if it doesn't become cannon, then, well, we can always make up for the lack of said Sterek here, where that sort of thing flourishes, no?**

**With that being said, anyone who's read Love is knows that I tried my hand at some bromance with Jackson and Stiles, and the results were rather wonderful if I do say so myself. So, I figured, what the hell? Why not try something else like that? And then I tried a bit of a future-con, though both of those had only subtle hints of being future flushed, and those went well too, so, I decided that um, yes, I have to try this, just to see how it goes. **

**With the seeing how this is going to go, this little lovely came about in my brain, and I really can't say no to the things that I think, because half the time the plot bunnies are just to delicious to not sink my teeth into.**

**And honestly, I have nothing against Scott, I adore him even if I do still stand by the notion that he's only cute in that wide-eyed puppy kind of way, so any hard felt feelings given in this story in the direction of Scott -which there will be a lot of, I'm sorry-, I can assure you that there is a very valid reason for them!**

**So, without further ado, please try your fancy at the first chapter of **_Can we keep him, Daddy?_

**And do be dears and do the poll on my profile please?**

* * *

It wasn't like they hadn't fought before. Actually, if he stopped to think about it, all he and Scott ever did anymore was fight. Fight, fight, fight, fight, fight, fight, fight. It was like a vicious, never ending cycle of raised voices and hurtful words with no downtime in between anymore, and it, God it was exhausting.

And maybe that was it, the fact that all they ever did anymore was fight.

There was no middle ground to be had with Scott, not when his head so far up Allison's ass that it was in her fathers, and all that Derek had to offer were distracted growls about pack and harsh shoves into walls, nevermind the fact that Stiles had held him up in a pool for two hours.

The rest of the pack wasn't much better.

Erica was too interested in Boyd to really be much other than someone who was just there, and he didn't have a problem against the big man, liked him just fine. Isaac on the other hand, for as sweet and harmless as the abused boy was, seemed to be set apart from them just slightly, being close to Derek and closer to Scott and oh, right.

That was where his best friend had gone, wasn't it?

Currently, there was no best friend to be had, just a boy in the hall that he was almost chest to chest with, belly churning in anger and his blood boiling.

"Seriously Scott, all this Beta crap is going to your head."

"It's not a problem Stiles."

"Not a problem?" An exasperated laugh, brown eyes narrowing. "My Dad got pulled into the middle of your stupid fight Scott. My Father, only family I have left encase you forgot, so yeah, it's a problem. Because between your obsession with Allison -who, oh, she's still broken up with you, isn't she?- and the fact that you can't choose between the hunters and pack, you've got a problem."

"Only problem I've got is you."

That stung a bit, making him blink and stare at the other boy with wide eyes, other students scurrying past them, seeming to have enough sense as to not get in the middle of their argument.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Only fucking problem I've got right now is you, with your stupid idea's and your stupid problems and your stupid decision to butt into pack business, when you aren't even pack. Oh, I'm an Adderall addict, oh, my Mommy died, boo hoo. Well, get over it Stilinski, I've got more important things to be worried about than a half wit sidekick who gets the shit kicked out of him by an old man."

And with that, Scott gave a growl, shouldering past the shell shocked teen and disappearing down the hall.

Stiles didn't even move as the bell rang, loud and shrill in the air, looking straight ahead of himself with unseeing eyes that were steadily growing wet.

A hiccuping sound, hand clasping over his mouth and his body giving a shake, because those were tears, scalding as they started to run down his cheeks.

Closing his eyes then, he shook his head, breathing sharply through his nose to try and keep himself together even though it was a little too late for that, the scent of salt and pain filling the air all around him even as he took off in a quick, staggering, stumbling walk to the deserted locker room.

.

Stiles ate lunch alone that day, for the first time since fourth grade when he and Scott had first met and bonded over runny jello and sticky sandwiches.

.

Despite popular belief, Jackson didn't actually hate Stiles.

Sure, the lanky teen talked too much, and he got into more trouble than he seemed to be worth some times, but he was smart, and he was kind and loyal and the blond had watched how he stuck with McCall over the years, taking all the anger and remarks that the other boy made in stride, like they didn't really affect him.

For every single thing there was to dislike about the boy, there were two qualities to make him all the more likable.

He talked too much; usually, whatever the boy was saying would wind up being useful in one way or another even if you didn't know it at the time, and with every word he said, he was watching people, learning things based on how they reacted.

He was clumsy; those arm flails and spinning feet came in handy, distracting things that allowed him to get closer and closer to a person to the point that they didn't notice he had taken something till it was too late, and every move he made seemed to be calculated in some way, useful in others.

He never listened to reason; because, more often than not, where Stiles was involved, reason was wrong, illogical and rash as his plans and idea's seemed, they usually panned out perfectly and his brain filed away every little thing any person ever said, either to use it for them or against them.

And he was kind, more genuine than most people Jackson had ever met, truly just wanting to be helpful to the masses but still remembering at the same time that the little people mattered too.

So, when the scent of despair floated around him for the third day in a row -he'd been counting, because normally all he was used to from the boy was happiness, a touch of worry, and a strange mixture of amusement and annoyance-, Jackson started to feel concerned. Started to keep an eye on the boy in the classes they shared, listen for his voice in the ones that they didn't like he usually did Lydia's heart beat with its calming effect as it beat in time with his.

Three days, and he hadn't heard the boy speak once unless called on by a teacher.

Someone was lucky if they got three minutes of silence around the boy, and here he had gone for three days without so much as a complaint to coach.

That concern quickly manifested itself into worry, and so on the fourth day, unable to take the silence and the scent of sadness and pain that lifted from the boy, Jackson set his tray down beside him at lunch -McCall had been ignoring him to the point that he wouldn't even look at the short haired brunette, leaving the boy to sit alone-, earning him a wide eyed look.

And if the boy didn't look a mess he didn't know who did.

His pale skin looked just a touch away from ghastly, and his body seemed like it had to strain to hold his head up. There were dark, spongy half circles of skin under his red rimmed eyes, the brown orbs a step away from being bloodshot. And he was looking at Jackson with wide eyes, a flare of disbelief in his scent, and just a touch of panic, enough to be unnerving.

He probably should have said something, shouldn't have just shown up like that, not when the boy smelled like that, and looked that tired. So instead, he offered a sound of question, indicating to the seat with his free hand, water bottle in the other. "Can I sit here?"

"I, uh, well, se-"

"Pack shouldn't be alone."

Wide eyes went wider, and there was a slight flush to his cheeks that hadn't been there before, looked strange against the pale, sunken cheeks-the boy hadn't been eating, not with how heavily Jackson could smell the hunger on him, making his own stomach give a quiet rumble as if it were the empty one.

The scent of pain was still there, but the sadness was just a bit less, mixed tightly with disbelief and just a bit of hope, and the boy gave him a nod.

It only took a few seconds -he hadn't bothered to voice his concerns to her, no, because Lydia was resourceful, and held a sharper wit and a more educated mind than he had ever given her credit for- and he could catch the scent of her sweet perfume, watered down as it was because she had caught onto how it irritated his now sensitive nose otherwise. A few seconds more, and there was her voice, heartbeat calming and pulsing under her fair skin as she set her tray down across from them, soft smile stretching her full lips.

"Hey Honey Boo, evidently there's a Batman marathon on tonight, and well, Jackson's just going to fall asleep, so I figured you could watch it with me! I'll even get us pizza from that place you like, their delux was really good."

Her legs crossed primly and her hands folded on the table so her chin could rest on the back of the bridge the digits made, the strawberry blonde looked between the two of them with a slightly expectant look.

And yet, Stiles looked lost, his eyes wide and darting between the two of them even as Danny took the seat across from him, offering a smile before taking a bite of his sandwich.

"I don't,"

A tap to the back of the boys hand, because his girlfriend was tactfully distracted then, talking to the Hawaiian teen about the fact that the team was going to win State this year, and then those wide brown eyes were turned to him again, just as wide and unsure as they had been before.

"Pack," A bit of a grunt, finger tapping the boys chest then, right on his heart to emphasize his point.

The smile he got in return was worth it, enforced by the thick scent of happiness that exploded from the motor mouth teen.

.

If his Dad noticed that Scott wasn't hanging around, then he didn't mention it.

Something that attributed to that, was the fact that his Dad was never around, having thrown himself head first into his Sheriff's duties after finding out about the whole Werewolf thing.

Well, at least Stiles didn't have to lie to him anymore.

What his Dad did notice, was when he came home once about two months later, at around two in the morning, to find four teenagers clustered into a heap on his overstuffed couch in front of the tv, credits for some foreign film crawling past.

What he did notice, was that, while one of them was his son, curled onto the arm of the couch with one arm hanging off and his leg stretched somewhere under Danny who was passed out on the other end, was that neither of the two left were Scott.

Instead, it was Jackson and Lydia, with the blond stretched out best he could between the other two boys, head on Stiles' stomach and his knees bent over the goalie's hips, and the only girl in the bundle curled up on his chest with her head tucked under his chin, fingers laced with his sons while the other lay clenched in Danny's shirt.

He noticed, and he made a note to file it away, because it explained things, why his son was acting happier, getting home at a decent hour, and always running everywhere with either a laugh or a smile.

He noticed, and he noticed good, and so he grabbed a large blanket, arranging it over the teenage knot of limbs and setting an alarm on his sons phone before going upstairs.

.

Two months turned into five, and before Stiles knew it, the weather was warming up just as school was letting out.

Five months of classes that dragged on and on in the most painful of ways, and then a week of finals where the brown eyed junior was left to scramble for every single note he had that would possibly offer him help.

Scott was still in his classes, but every day went by without a single word from the boy, and the other teen had gone so far as to get transferred out of their classes, having his seat moved in the ones that he couldn't. And Stiles would never admit it out loud unless it was to Lydia during one of their bonding nights as she liked to call them where the two of them stretched out on his bed with old black and white movies and a bag of popcorn, but it hurt, hurt to the point that he just wished he could go numb to it all. It was easy to be friends with her once they had gotten past the whole unrequited crush thing, bonding over their post traumatic stress caused by Peter, who was alive and kicking and living with Derek in the burned shell of the Hale house once more.

And he didn't know which was worse, the hurt that came with the fact that Scott had completely abandoned him in every sense of the word, going as as to have the locks on the front door changed -Stiles knew this because he'd tried to return the house key he had a week after their blow out, an it hadn't worked- or that he had grown attached to the ragtag power trio who seemed to have adopted him, and that as the days grew longer and school pulled to a close, he was terrified that they would leave him too.

And so with the first day of summer, he felt his stomach give a heave, waking up to the sheet-tangled warmth of his bed and resisting the urge to stretch, because that would just solidify the notion that yes, he was awake. But awake he was, because that was his ceiling above his head with its wrinkles and cracks that branched out from the slight dent where his lacrosse stick had hit. There was no way he could avoid that, not with the bright, warm sun beating down on his face and the sweat slick way that the sheets clung to him.

Sighing, he stretched then, long enough that his joints popped and his shoulders cried out in protest before he turned, curving on his side to face the window with its treacherous warmth.

He lay like that then for what seemed like a few hours, gazing out the cracked pane of his window with the slight claw marks on the bottom of it from where the pack used to force their way through, though that hadn't happened in months. So lost in himself in thoughts of what had been, completely unfazed by the sound of feet on the stairs, because it was around the right time for his Dad to be going to work anyways.

Except that was something being thrown onto him, something heavy, and it took him a minute to realize that it was his lacrosse gear, which had been left in the back of his Jeep since the last practice.

"Get your ass up Stilinski, you smell like boy."

"Lydia?" Turning, sitting up, he stared at the red head in disbelief, but sure enough, she was there in all her glory, milky body wrapped in a soft green tank top and frayed denim shorts, hair styled into a high tail.

"Jackson and Danny expect you on the field in twenty, because you're playing first line next year."

It took him ten minutes, ten minutes to shower and be change into shorts and an old shirt before Lydia was bustling him out the door, shoes still untied and his bag strung haphazardly over his shoulder.

Her car wasn't there, meaning the boys had dropped her off with the solid knowledge that the queen would get him out of bed and to the field, and she didn't seem fazed by this in the slightest as she swung herself into the passenger seat, a familiar place for the green eyed girl.

And his summer went like that, relief hanging to him strongly, because they hadn't left him, hadn't given up on him just because school was out and they had no need to see him every day. They did it by choice, because douche or not, Jackson cared for those who were his, and evidently, Stiles fell under the classification of his.

Which meant getting taken to bowling night, or movies, or the diner down the street that stayed open all night with like, the best pancakes, ever.

Late night movies, campouts in living rooms, or even use of Lydia's entire house whenever she demanded the right from her parents since the two bickering adults never told her no.

And practices enforced by Jackson and Danny as his coaches, conditioning him and pushing him past every burn and ache to the point that he could almost go toe-to-toe with Jackson, Lydia on the sidelines with water and sandwiches for when she demanded they take breaks.

School started, and none of that changed, the three sticking close to him, and none of them were surprised when he scored first line, even though Lydia screamed the loudest from the stands, a smug tip on her cupid's bow mouth at the shocked look on Scott and Isaac's faces.

Being first line meant popularity, and people actually talking to him.

Being recognized by the fact that he was usually flanked by one of the three powerhouses, if not two, or all of them?

That meant respect.

And since the cat was out of the bag, Lydia decided to show her smarts, the two of them at a constant battle for top marks as senior year rolled through, and by the time winter break hit and second semester started, that meant more scrambling and squawking and limbs flailing, because there were colleges to apply to and financial aid to look into.

Scott still didn't talk to him.

Stiles didn't even bother trying.

He had friends that knew him, were there for him, from the way that Danny would clasp him on the back of the neck in passing, or how Lydia would slip an arm around his waist as they wandered to a shared class, or even the brotherly arm thrown over his shoulder by Jackson as the two went over whatever they felt like talking about.

Lydia made valedictorian, something that surprised none of them, an after weeks of torcherous studying and cramming and hair pulling, they all graduated with flying colors and heads held high, goofy, proud grins splitting their faces as proof in the framed picture that sat on his Dad's desk where a picture of him and Scott used to be back from freshmen year.

Berkeley and Columbia, none of them were surprised when the three powerhouses got their acceptance letters, even though Stiles couldn't help but feel a touch of envy and worry.

Neither lasted long.

.

Eight on the dot, every other night, they had a routine.

With summer upon them once more and their graduation status locked down firmly as done an over, they were free to come and go as they pleased, at whatever inane hour suited them best.

One habit that refused to die though, was that every other night, the four of them had dinner at Maggie's Diner, a dinner that consisted of burgers and curly fries and milkshakes in their respected flavors, an order that Linda, granddaughter of the owner, knew by heart.

Points of her elbows on the table, hair pulled back into a curling ponytail, there was a bit of a worried pout on Lydia's pretty face. Chin in her hands, she seemed unfazed by the arm over the back of her seat, or how her boyfriend was toying with the ends of her hair, eyes intent on the door where she could see it past Danny's shoulders instead.

"He's late."

Like it was a crime.

And then again, it was, because no one kept Lydia Martin waiting, not anyone with any sense of self preservation anyhow.

And Stiles Stilinski?

Was a half and hour late.

Half and hour late, and his burger had grown cold, curly fries being picked off between the three of them though if anyone outside their group were to ask, Lydia would never dare touch one, did you know what those did to your skin?

"People are late all the time, Lyd."

The glare she gave Danny was enough to make anyone else cringe, but he just stayed where he was, leaned back against the corner of the booth.

"Not Stiles."

Tracing his hand over the slender slope of her back, Jackson took another fry from the communal plate in the center of the table.

Door rattling, all the warning the occupants inside the diner got was the sound of the bell jangling before there was a mass of lithe muscled limbs piled on the floor where he had slipped. Only for a second though, because he was scrambling up with the same flailing limbs and happy face, scrambling over to where the other three sat to fall into the empty space beside Danny.

Mouth opened, Jackson tried to speak, but his words were silenced by the thick white envelope slammed down onto the table.

All three fell just as silent as they had been a moment before, looking first from the envelope, then to his flushed face with its wide splitting grin.

"Stiles, is this?"

Nodding rapidly, enough so that his jaws flapped just slightly, his grin went wider, looking as it it threatened to crack his entire face in two, and Lydia let out a squeal, throwing her arms across the table to wrap them tightly around his shoulders, not caring that her entire torso was technically on the table as well.

"You got into Cornell! Oh my god, you got into Cornell!"

Laughter, loud and consuming erupted from their portion of the diner, filling it even as Linda squeezed in to take his plate and get him a new one, free of charge, because it looked like her favorite customers had some celebrating to do.

Grinning, smiling so hard his face hurt, Stiles only hugged her in return, a bit haggled by the arms of Danny wrapped around his shoulders as well an squished between their chest, though he didn't actually give a single damn.

Looking up though, his smile widened, because that was pride of Jackson's face, pride and pack and that was a kind of look he really didn't see often enough, nor was that wide smile on the jocks face.

Hands going up in the air, Stiles gave a shout, voice filled with glee and his body swaying happily even with the extra laughing weight on him.

"We're going to New York!"

Jackson, being the only one not stuck in the crush of limbs, caught sight of one Scott McCall where he had just come in for a pickup order.

He was the only one to see the pained look on the boys features, the only one to smell the anguish and the longing and the regret, and with such he let out a near silent growl, a warning sound, eyes narrowing in their brilliant, electric blue state.

Because Stiles was his pack now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry this is short.**

**I found someone who shares in my love of Jackson! Oh, yay, thank you cleo.001, I think you've managed to make my day!**

**And I don't think I've gotten this many reviews, this rapidly on a single chapter, or this many favorites and follows, so thank you all very much for that!**

**I'm happy to see that it's only been the first chapter, and I already have people looking forward to this story, which I have high hopes for. And I'm going to try to get a set date for updates on this, I just don't really know what day exactly that will be as of yet.**

**Touching base on the fact that, I have no actual problems with Scott. I don't think he's the brightest, and honestly his level of stupidity has gone from a bit daft to downright pathetic, because he really needs to open his eyes, but I'm not going to hold that against him. But, for plot reasons and a mixture of other things, like character reactions and the like, I am going to remind you of the fact that there will be Scott bashing in this, but that's nothing new because actually there's a fair amount of it in the series, so.**

**Anyway, here's another chapter, so, enjoy!**

**And hey, theres a pretty little poll on my profile that'll only take a minute of your time, promise!**

**Sorry this took so long, I've started a new job and my hours kill!**

**Totally a domestic feel on this one, just to show you where things have gone.**

* * *

_Eight years later..._

New York was the city of lights.

It was often called such, by foreigners and travelers and even by the people that lived within the confines of the big apple with its bright lights and music of life that never ever slept.

That, at least, was something that everyone had gotten right, with the way that they glamorized the large city well past the beacon that it actually was.

Media did a good job of that, making it desirable, the place to be, the only real destination where everything happened, and really, you were going to be such a country bumpkin that you wouldn't even bother going to see the bright lights and the Lady Liberty, the heart beat of the city that never ever skipped a single palpitation?

For shame.

The things that the media covered up?

That is was also the city of smog.

The city of sex.

The city of drugs.

The city of human trafficking.

The city of violence.

The city of dirty money.

The city of death.

Oh.

And traffic.

Definitely a city of traffic.

Example?

"Hey, heyheyheyheyhey!" Hands slamming down heavily onto the hot yellow hood of the taxi before him, the squeal of tires was nothing new to his ears, nor was the chilling, aggravating bump of heavy car front against his slack covered thighs. It was something familiar, albeit it was something he could live without. Jaw popping, the man of twenty five gave a shout over the blare of the taxi horn, brown eyes blazing. "Watch where the fuck'yer goin!"

The Spanish man was yelling at him from inside the distastefully cheery little car which in fact wasn't very cheery, at all, like it was _his_ fault that the man had tried to turn left on red into the pedestrian crossing. And just as the man was yelling, his rantings were in a language far spicier than any English could ever be, his hands waving and his face twisted up into a scowl, as if Stiles _didn't_ know every single word the impatient bastard was saying. So he let slip words just as thick, just as hot and spicy and strange to his tongue even though they were painfully familiar, insulting the man and damning him to hell, a couple 'fuck you's slipping in, or therefore the equivalent of as no translation was every completely perfect.

With that, he pushed off the hood, flipping a finger at the slack jawed man and continuing on his way, lanky legs going one before the other as his arms swung a bit at his sides, messenger bag done securely over his shoulder.

The day was fresh, pleasantly warm and crisp in the way that only a spring afternoon could be, and he was happy to say that he'd thought ahead and just worn a long sleeved shirt when he'd caught the train that morning. Even if Lydia had yet to learn that it was pointless to try and dress him to a fashionable degree, because really, after seven years, someone would have thought that she would have learned by now just how pointless it really was to even try and make him look presentable.

Already, there was glitter on the collar of his powder blue dress shirt, a stain from a black marker on the inside of the left cuff, and one of the buttons at the bottom had completely disappeared.

But, that was the thing.

It wasn't that Lydia hadn't learned, because she was like, a genius, who knew things that most people didn't even bother trying to comprehend, like archaic Latin for crying out loud, which had lead to her studies of Egyptian and her mastery of archaic Mongolian because she'd gotten bored during her lunch breaks at the local high school.

Lydia Whittemore just didn't care.

And she had the wallet to not be able to care, because she came from old money, with several stocks in her name that kept her bank account loaded with a nice, happy full belly. Old money that was backed by the old money of her hubby, then tripled by the hefty check Jack was able to write himself every single time he solved a case, since he was the best defense lawyer their side of the Big Apple.

So, that withstanding, mixed with the fact that their resident Were couldn't say no to his mate to save his life, made it okay for Lydia to buy him new clothes whenever she decided that he needed them.

Or whenever she saw the aftermath of whatever glitterbomb had been set off in his class, the residue from whatever glue explosion had taken place, or the incriminating splatter marks from whatever finger painting fiasco had gone wrong that day.

And it was a daily thing.

Really, he didn't care though, because if ten years ago, someone had been stupid enough to pull him aside in the hallway and tell him that, hey, his best friends would be Jackson, Lydia and Danny, and that he'd be a teacher? He would have led them down to the nurses office, gently, before running off to whatever class he was no doubt late for.

He wouldn't trade it though, not the cracked sidewalk under his feet or the tall, thin townhouses that were squished together on his left side as he trudged up the hill to his house. Fingers drumming away on the stretchy fabric of his satchels strap and his feet going up the steep steps two at a time, he reached out with a bit of a tune under his breath, hand twisting the doorknob and pushing it back, taking in the scents of home as he toed his shoes off just inside the door.

Somewhere to the left, there were the sounds of a game on, the buzzing of a ref spitting into their whistle and the scream of fans, and after a second of listening, he gave up, not really wanting to know what Danny was watching this time, and he wandered deeper into the house instead.

Hand on the banister, he paused next to the stairs, head tipping, because those were voices from the kitchen.

Voices, though one of them was the radio, stuck on whatever bouncy pop station she'd turned it to, and the other was Lydia, singing to herself as she floated around the room, and the slightly off key tone to her voice made him smile fondly and shake his head.

Course changed, he took his bag off, hooking the strap over the knobby bit at the bottom of the banister.

Leaning against the door jam, arms hanging free down at his sides with his thumbs tucked into the pockets slightly, he couldn't help but smile, watching her with amusement in his honey gaze. Because this was his life now, these three who had taken him under their wing when he had been at his lowest low, who had pulled him out of the isolation he'd been forced into before he had lost himself within the darkness, and he had never been so thankful for something in his life. Aggravate her as it might, he made it a point to thank them whenever he thought about it, though Lydia would scold him every time.

Eight years hadn't done anything wrong by Lydia Whittemore, other than to change her last names and add a slight crinkle around her warm green eyes from smiling and laughing as much as she did around them. She was still the same Lydia, wickedly smart to the point that it scared even him, and just as ambitious as the first day he had ever met her, though now she forced that ambition onto her students, no matter how much they didn't want it.

Usually, there would be two voices in the front room, shouting happily as a point was scored, but at the sound of only one, his brow furrowed and his head turned back, going to the door, but nope, there were only three pairs of adult shoes there.

"Jackson have to work late?"

Her head came up at that, red hair swaying in the loose ponytail it had been manhandled into when she'd gotten through the front door and didn't have an appearance to withhold, and her face was clean of all traces of makeup.

He didn't think he'd ever seen her look so beautiful.

"Sti-"

"Daddy!"

A rush of pink and yellow, a little blob of color that bolted from a bar stool and smacked into his legs instead, wrapping thin, pale golden arms around them without delay and nuzzling her little face into his thigh.

Grunting, grinning, he bent at the waist, wrapping one arm around her before scooping the squealing little girl into the air, grinning wider still as her arms flailed about and wrapped around his neck, holding tight as her legs did a monkey type deal to get a grip around his chest.

At five, Juliana was bright child, even though that was probably what every parent wanted to think of their son or daughter at some point or another, a hopeful little plea of, yes-God-let-them-be-smart-please-please-I'll-never-watch-porn-again-I-swear, that went through every parents head at least once, if not more, like when the kid had to get taken to the emergency room for shoving a straw up their nose, and all the parent could think was that they had a dumbass for a kid.

She was bright though, Lydia had told him proudly, as if the little girl were hers and not his, because she could read, something better than most five year olds who weren't in kinder-garden could do. She could read the big kid books, even though she needed help on words that were bigger than because or special, and there was a bit of a slow, awkward gait to the way that she read. And she could do math, the basic ten plus five equals fifteen, and twenty minus two makes eighteen, that sort of math.

She could also tie her shoes, and knew how to blow spit balls like a champ, but Stiles would never take claim for that one.

Warmth in his chest as he pressed a kiss to her forehead and pushed back her thin bangs with long fingers, Stiles couldn't seem to smooth the smile from his face.

"Hey Ju-Ju, were you good at daycare today?"

Her little face scrunched up in distaste then, disgust at the mere mention of the place where she had to go while her Daddy was at work, and before he could ask she shook her head.

"Missus May smelly icky, and she had stuff in her nose." Brow furrowing, his hand went to her forehead, a precautionary measure that he didn't even actually notice he took anymore, just to be sure that she was indeed alright. There was no warmth though, apart from the usual bundle of heat and energy that she was, so he gave a slight nod before smiling in exasperation.

"Ju-Ju, you can't just say that about people."

"Daddy," Looking dead in her fathers eye from her lifted position in his arms, the youngest Stilinski gave him a look of narrowed scrutiny. "She smelled worse than Uncle Jackson after he goes furry."

Oh.

"Well then," Bouncing her in his arms, jostling her till she clung and slotting against his hip, perfectly aligned to keep herself from falling, Stiles closed his eyes. He had to rub a hand over his face to keep from laughing, but that didn't even really work much as near silent rumblings floated from his chest and crawled out of his throat.

With a grin over at Lydia, hoisting his daughter up again to plant a smacking kiss on her cheek, earning a shrill giggle for his troubles, Stiles gave a wink to the other woman. "That is pretty icky."

"Oh please," Lydia rolled her eyes in response, turning her back to the two to continue dinner, even though there was a fond smile on her lips and a presence of warmth in her green eyes at their antics, father and daughter flailing about and making the strangest of noises behind her.

Silence, smiling still, and with a gasp Stiles turned the little girl back to him, face a mask of paternal content. "Ju-Ju, why don't you go pounce on Uncle Danny."

The five year old nodded, pale golden pigtails bouncing as they streamed past her shoulders and her eyes bright with mischief, set on her feet and let free to venture into the other room.

"Love you, Daddy."

"You too, Bug."

A cry from the other room, shock from Danny as a roughly forty-five pounds dove for his stomach, looking for a comfortable place to sit.

Then, and only once he knew she was really gone, he let himself sigh, fingers scrubbing through his hair just long enough he could take a handful or two of it, and the single father sank into one of the bar stools, the one his daughter had just emptied if the warmth it had was anything to go by.

"Rough day?"

A snort, because his head was down, down where it could be planted on the table, his arms skewed out at a funny angle with the points of his elbows digging into the marble surface and his fingers still clutched in his hair.

Rough didn't even begin to cover it, but he didn't know where to start, because he loved his job, he really did to be honest, wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

But some days he had to remind himself that.

"Patrick swallowed glue, Henry tried to camouflage himself with stickers, Layla decided to try and melt crayons in the Easy-Bake Oven I didn't know they let me have."

That gained him no pity though, for she made a sound something like a snort, continuing on her way of piddling and making dinner.

"Before their mid morning snack."

There, a sharp inhale, and with gentle fingers, she patted the top of his head, a pretty coo falling from her pretty lips.

"That is a rough day, baby." Just as carefully though, some of her hands gripped his cuff and lifted, showing the damage to the sleeve, upon which she tisked her tongue. Head rotating up so the point of his chin was on the counter instead, he looked up at her through his lashes, a sheepish smile on his face at her look of disapproval. Ponytail swaying violently as she shook her head, Lydia tugged harshly on his cuff. "This, is brand new Stiles."

"I know right, absolutely love this color on me, Missus Beck tried to hit on me while the kids were at lunch."

"That's nice Sti," Another tug. "But why is it ruined?"

Blinking, he could only stare up at her for a moment, mouth unable to form a response because, really? Seriously?

"Because I teach five and six year olds?"

Green eyes narrowing, he got a perfect view as her nostrils flared and her pretty little mouth moved into a not so pretty sneer. Like that was something she didn't know, a fact that she should have been used to actually, because didn't he just get done sayi-

"I'll get you another one then."

And that seemed to be that, discussion closed with a shrug and a nod from his female housemate as a glass of water was set down in front of him with a quiet clunk.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you all for the many favorites and follows, it's pretty wonderful to check my email and just see a list of alerts! And, once more, apologizing for the delays, because my schedule at work is pathetically wonky, so updates are sketchy right now. Alas, I am working on this though!**

**Watched the Hobbit for the second time, went with my best friend Alex cuz she hadn't seen it yet? The dwarf song is stuck in my head now...**

**But, yes, I've noticed that ah, you guys have an interest in what happened to little Julianna's mother? Good luck with your curiosity my lovies! I'm going to try to make this chapter a bit longer, just to give you something meatier to chew on, but no promises. Something that pertains to the plot at least.**

**Reminder, favorites and follows are adored, ****reviews are favored, and theres a poll on my profile!**

* * *

Nap time was a wonderful thing.

Whoever had invented it, he owed them like, half of his paychecks, no shit, it saved him that much of his hyper sanity.

Well, what was left of his sanity after living with Jackson and Danny and Lydia since two out of the three seemed to _have an aversion to clothing when his daughter wasn't home!_

Beggers can't be choosers though.

That was probably the reason he'd spent the last three minutes trying to quietly open a bag of Cheetos.

Three minutes, because it was Cheetos, jalapeno Cheetos for crying out loud and there was no way he was going to sit through the half an hour nap time that the little monsters got without having his damn Cheetos!

It was proving to be harder than he'd thought though, because the bag squeaked every single time he even tried to get it open, but try he did. A little sliver-crack-thingy was opened in it though, enough so that he could smell the spicy cheesy goodness that was his crunchy snack, but for every centimeter he gained, a loud squeak sounded. Brow furrowing, teeth twisting into the inside of his cheek as if that would solve anything, Stiles grunted, giving another little pull.

_Squeeeeeeee_

Eyes closing tight, he began to grumble, muttering obscenities quietly to himself.

Because he couldn't eat in front of the children, he'd learned that within his first few days of ever teaching, because there were only so many barbecue chips in one bag that didn't divide well with selfish, grubby handed kinder gardeners- who were now fourth graders and still just as grubby, but that was beside the point.

Another try.

_Squeeeeeeee_

Lips pulling back into a frustrated sneer, he set the bag down with a sigh, the kind that pushed through his exposed teeth like a hiss.

Chair scooted back, he glared at the shiny green and orange bag with its annoying fucking Cheetah on it, nose level with the edge of his desk. An intense glaring session mind you, that he wasn't about to lose, regardless of the fact that said Cheetah was probably cheating and blinking up a storm behind his black shades.

If he even had eyes.

Fuck, had they ever actually seen the beast without its glasses on?

Blinking, he sat up a little, losing the contest as he looked down at the bag with an ridiculous expression, but oh well.

He would have lost anyway, bastard cheated.

Tugging his phone from his desk, and a pair of scissors while he was at it because fuck this he could open it the easy way, he shot a text to the only person he knew would respond.

_Does Chester Cheetah actually have eyes?_

A minute to cut the bag, enough to put a slit in it that he could fit two or three fingers though, and his muffled triumphant noise was echoed by the single little buzz his phone made.

_I have a class right now, Stilinski._

Snorting, smirking, Stiles settled lower into his seat, bag in one hand while he balanced his phone on his knee. It was a waiting game, he knew from experience, to see which one of them cracked first. So he snacked on a few of his Jalapeno Cheetos, crunching quietly and letting his eyes roam around the grubby nosed monsters instead.

_According to Orlando Studio's, no, he doesn't, but there's no further comment from the Cheetos' company._

Victorious, he popped another one in, making a tally mark under his name on the little score pad he kept close.

Because he could practically hear her reluctance to answer him, no matter how boring Advanced Placement Calculus was.

.

His pocket had been vibrating worse th-nope, not finishing that sentence, not gana happen, stop it right there Stilinski you don't wana thi-well fuck.

There went his chances of eating lunch.

Phone acting worse than a Rabbit with new batteries, he'd been forced to sit through story time feeling like there was a bomb or something in his desk that only he could hear.

Curse or a blessing, he wasn't really all that sure yet as he ushered his little students from the room and into the hands of another teacher, Miss Trader, a few years older than him and just as sweet as he hoped he was on days like this, he waited till the little guys were out of sight before shutting and latching his door.

Any pretenses of being a teacher fell after that, since he took leaps and bounds across the room to where his desk was. Sailing for the top drawer didn't even begin to cover the totally epic motion he made even though he landed on his belly on the floor, hand still on the handle so it was a complete win though, he decided as he pulled himself up and peered inside. Large fingers wrapping around his phone, his back smacked against the cool wall as he let himself sit, fingers tapping to unlock the screen, 'cuz damnit Lydia, this wasn't payback this was tortu-

Eight missed calls from Jackson.

That wasn't right.

Jackson had this...thing about him, that Stiles knew really well after ten years, about how, if you didn't answer his call the first time, he wouldn't try again.

Kinda a spiteful whole, if you don't have time for me I don't have time for you thing.

Unless it was Lydia though, and then he would ring and ring and ring until she picked up, and wouldn't even give a damn if she was angry with him.

Heart thumping, his fingers felt stiff as he flipped through the calls, because there were voice mails, and just as much as Jackson never called more than once, he never, ever left a voice mail for anyone who wasn't Lydia.

And last time he checked, he wasn't Lydia.

So his fingers tapped out the code to unlock the voice mail setting on the pretty smart phone that Lydia had insisted he have since she and Jackson paid the bill, and so what if his code _happened_ to be his daughters birth date, was he not allowed to be a proud Daddy?

_"Stiles, I'm,"_ A pause, and he drew back a bit, looking at the phone in confusion and just a little bit of fear, because he didn't have to be a wolf to hear the despair in the words that Jackson wasn't saying, the heartbreak and the anguish that he could feel because he was _pack_. _"Just, call me back, okay?"_.

And just like that, the line went dead, and that annoying lady on the other end was asking him if he wanted to save or delete the voice mail, and frankly he wanted to do neither, but there were seven others he had to listen to, encase something was different in one of them, encase Jackson said something.

But they were all the same.

_"Stiles, call me."_

_"Stiles, call me."_

_"Stiles, call me."_

_"Stiles, call me."_

_"Stiles, call me."_

_"Stiles, call me."_

_"Stiles, call me."_

The older man sounded desperate by the last one, and it was enough to make him feel sick, body shaking as he hit one of his many speed dials.

Knees pulling up, a self protective habit he'd caught back in sophomore year when everything had been a furry hell, his elbows rested on them, close to the point hat it squished him a bit. It felt familiar though, the kind of formation he had folded himself into when his life was ruled by fear and fangs and panic attacks, so his body immediately slotted into place.

He picked up on the second ring.

"Jacks?"

Again, he could hear the pain in the other's voice, something that was as familiar as it wasn't, but he didn't like it all the same.

"There's...been an accident."

"What?"

Lydia, or Danny, one of them was hurt.

Or shit, Jesus, someone help him, because he wouldn't know what to do if it was his baby who was hurt, not his little girl, she was too little for that.

His legs curled up a little tighter at the thought.

"I don't, they won't tell me what happened exactly, but he-shit, Stiles, it's your Dad."

A flash of relief, because it wasn't Julianna, it wasn't his baby, but that guilty, sick relief was quickly chased away by the rest of the information when it actually sank in. Because it was his Dad, the only blood family other than his daughter that he had left, and there was...something had...

"I couldn't get any detail, but its bad Stiles,"

His legs fell first, all the tension flooding out of them so fast that they just thumped straight to the ground, knees cracking in protest even as they bounced.

His arms went next, nerves completely slipping away from him and his elbows cracking against the wall while his hands smacked to the ground, phone bouncing a few feet away.

Silence, and he could hear his best friends voice, calling to him, worried.

But then it all came charging back, and the sound he made was something inhuman and anguished, body snapping back into that protective curl just as quickly as it had fallen out of it, because he had been here before, he knew those words. Those were the very words that had echoed through his head before every panic attack that came around every time he used to thing of _her_, because that was all they had been told, the only explanation his eight year old self had been given.

_"There's been an accident."_

So he sounded inhuman, letting out a pained wail, not even registering the sounds of Jackson panicking and _growling_ across the line, no doubt rushing from wherever he was to where Stiles was.

And it hurt, somewhere deep in his chest, the kind of pain that made it hard for him to breathe even as the breaths came, but in the sobbing kind of pants that weren't good for him, not one bit.

Jackson found him like that, with the master key that someone in the office had given him, another teacher having taken his snotty little students because there was no way in hell he could handle them right now. Found him all curled up on himself, head burrowed somewhere between the shell his arms and his legs made, fingers pulling at his hair and his eyes burning, chest hurting with a kind of panic that he hadn't felt in so many years that he almost forgot what it felt like.

And it was like drowning, drowning as his friend grabbed him, didn't force him to uncurl like anyone else would have, just pulled him close in a way that was totally not manly and really Stiles didn't give a single fuck, because they'd called it an _accident,_ and the last time he'd heard that, someone had _died_.


	4. Chapter 4

**It shouldn't have taken me this long to get a chapter up, and I'm really, really sorry about all the wait you guys are going through, and those of you that are sticking with me are purely wonderful people. Between homework, graduation coming up soon, and my boss not giving me a schedule till the day before/of, I haven't really had much time for my computer. **

**Poll's still up on my profile because I'm just too damn lazy to take it down, probably gana wait till I start on that story to take it down, and I'm just going to focus on this one.**

**I found a hack though, so I can do this during my free periods at school and post them from there, so I'll be doing that till whenever really.**

**Anyway, enjoy the angsty feels.**

* * *

"Passengers, the captain has announced that we'll be landing in a few minutes. Please return to your seats, fasten your seat-belts and return your chairs to the upright position. We hope you've had a good flight, thank you for flying Air-American, welcome to sunny California."

There was a reason he'd left Beacon Hills.

There were lots of reasons he'd left Beacon Hills, actually, but it wasn't like anyone was expecting him to keep count.

He had though, kept count, a tally of times that something had happened, or hadn't happened, how many times he'd been forgotten or pushed aside or simply just _left_, like he didn't belong. Because he hadn't, didn't, a human in love with an emotionally stuck Alpha was nothing good for the pack, not when he knew damn well that said Alpha didn't have those kind of feelings. That was why he'd been pushed away, thrust out by Scott, his supposed best friend.

A beta bitch ever since Stiles had finally just told him to get over himself and become pack.

There, he'd done it to himself.

Right there, he'd done it all to himself, because he'd told Scott he'd needed a pack, an Alpha, and damnit, if the boy hadn't actually listened to him for once.

Listened, and seen that, oh, Stiles was human.

Human and useless and just too fucking irritating to deal with for longer than he had to, evidently, if how he'd been dropped like a hotpocket meant anything.

Meant a lot actually, but that was beside the point.

Deft movements, fingers going beside him to latch the seat-belt for his wide eyed little girl with her swinging legs and shiny little sneakers that Lydia had bought for her, Stiles tucked one streak of blonde behind her ear. Wayward gold that fell before her eyes when she turned her head, pulling herself from the window long enough to look up at him with a bright, gap-toothed grin on her golden face.

"Daddy, are we going to go to the hosc...hos-pi-ol to see Grampa?"

Forgoing the urge to close his eyes, he gave her a smile instead, listening to the tired sigh that Danny made from beside him. It had been a long flight, for all of them really, and the week had been just as long and painful and stressful as the few hours on the plane.

"Hospital. We're going to see Grampa at the hospital."

Still, it was easier to correct his daughter and press a kiss to her smooth little forehead, easier than even thinking about what exactly he was on a plane going back to Beacon Hills for. Except, Stiles couldn't _not_ think, that just wasn't how he worked, and even as he felt the large flying glob of metal give a little series of bounces in the air, his mind wandered.

He wouldn't have ever gone back to Beacon Hills if he could have helped it.

Beacon Hills and the surrounding area's -Beacon Prosper, Beacon Mine and Beacon Port because people fucking sucked at naming counties evidently weren't home anymore.

He hadn't been in their forests in years, hadn't walked their streets and loitered in their stores for half his life now, and although it was his childhood place, the town, no county where he had grown up, he doubted he would even really know it much anymore.

And he didn't want to know it, damnit, he didn't want to have to see peoples faces again, he didn't want to even begin to think about what the others were like now.

Because Scott was still probably a dick, he tried to rationalize with himself even as he struggled not to slump a little in his comfortable chair. Scott was probably a dick, no, there was no doubt he was a dick, with his socially inadequate ways and his dickish, douchey ways where he couldn't even fucking talk to a girl without looking at her boobs.

And Allison was probably still a perfect little Disney Princess with her soft hair and dimples that liked to try and eat her cheeks when she smiled. Sugary sweet with her little crossbow and her sharp hunter mind that was going to get somebody killed since half the time she didn't seem to know what side she really wanted to be on, let alone how to not make out with Scott long enough to breathe.

Erica was no doubt still a ladykiller, but that was what she'd been ever since Derek had literally sunk his teeth into her and made her into what she'd always wanted to be. Granted, the leather and lipstick and heels had done things in their own right, not to mention that her hair had been something wonderful afterwards, but she had always had bedroom eyes, and an attitude to match. Cheeky bitch.

Boyd probably hadn't changed, still big and solid and strong, just as silently searching as he had always been, though from what Stiles had seen, he'd started to find some companionship and passion in Erica's durable skin. Which was good, big man had needed someone who would make him talk, because if he didn't then he would end up like Derek and one grouch in the group was enough, let alone one with the muscle build that the man had.

Hopefully, Isaac was doing better. No matter how hard he tried, ill will wasn't something he could find against the curly haired wolf, with his hesitant smiles and wounded eyes. He was a tortured little pup, haunted by ghosts of the past and blows that had left scars too deep even for were-healing to fix. He could only hope and pray that someone had seen this, that maybe Scott had had a not-douchey, dickish moment and had pulled his head out of Allison's ass long enough to see this and help.

"Christ, I hate flying."

He didn't even want to think about Derek.

Didn't want to think about the emotionally constipated Alpha that he had held up in a pool for two fucking hours, the very same Alpha that he had bent over backwards to try and make happy before running head long into that damn brick wall.

Proverbial or not, that shit hurt.

It was easier instead to listen to Jacks with his occasional bits of bitching and moaning about how people reeked, how he could hear the way the captain had the plane on autopilot or how the couple four rows back in economy instead of coach like them were getting handsy under their blanket.

Easier and more entertaining to listen to the young wolf grunt and grumble and try to distract him, because that was exactly what the blond was doing.

Stiles knew this, so he went along with it as the plane bounced down onto the runway and Julianna let out a little squeal from beside him, eyes wide and her little hand gripping his thumb tightly.

.

Beacon Hills was shit.

It was little compared to the hustle and bustle of Manhattan that he was used to, where you had to walk fast or a cab tried to run you over.

He could guarantee, the only thing anybody had to worry about running them over was a high schooler on a ten-speed who didn't know how to shift gears.

He knew, he'd been that boy once before he'd gotten Baby. Who was currently sitting in their drive way back in Manhattan, because Jacks had had it shipped out for him when he'd refused to leave it behind, just as pretty and blue as she'd been the day they had left.

But, back to the point: Beacon Hills was shit.

It was little, and shitty, and hot.

It wasn't even hot like New York, like he was used to, where he thought he was going to fry on the sidewalk because all the sunlight reflected off of all the tall shiny buildings and beat down onto his skin. No, this hot was muggy, the kind of hot that came from the air being moist from the waters not far off, where he felt like he was going to _melt_ to the _sidewalk_ like one of those eggs he liked to eat from time to time.

He wasn't the only one who had noticed either, because Lydia's face had turned into a pretty, painted scowl, the most unimpressed look he had seen from her all day.

His daughter was a traitor in her own right, hand practically glued to his from the heat and the vacuum their sweat had created, because the gap toothed grin on her face was a spot on show that oh, she didn't mind the heat.

Even though her pigtails had already started to stick to her shoulders, and her little watermelon shorts had damp crease lines all over them.

Huffing, he hoisted her up onto his hip, waiting as she looped her arms around his neck and rested her little head on his shoulder in a familiar fashion. It was easier to give the three a bit of a beseeching look, easier to ignore the fact that the hospital loomed before them and focus on balancing his daughter instead.

This wasn't the Lydia he was used to, not quite. There was makeup on her face, and red on her lips to balance the black around her eyes and the soft brown shadow there, and her hair was the same springy fall of curls that it had been that first day back in Sophomore year when she still ignored him. No soft cotton or simple tank tops, because she had a lacy little white sundress that he knew she had bought a few days before just for this, and there were shoes on her feet, strappy little black sandals that laced up her calves.

Danny looked a bit uncomfortable, though that wasn't anything he hadn't expected. After all, the last time they had been here, he'd departed from his family on a note that was far too sour for anyone's liking, but there wasn't much that they could do about it. With his hair ruffled and his dark eyes slowly tracing up the face of the hospital though, he at least was familiar, even if the designer shirt and pricey jeans were a far cry from what he wore around the house on days like this.

Jackson though, he was enough to make Stiles swallow, because he'd seen that look before.

Jaw set, shoulders squared, eyes narrowed in the vicious bit of concern he had deep down that he liked to try and hide, Jackson at least was a familiar something. He had the same sports jacket that Stiles had seen him in time and time again, the dark tan one with the darker brown patches on the elbows that had a little bit of love and wear in their seams, the creased press of his pants over his long legs. Jackson was familiar, with his concern and his eyes a bright electric blue with the kind of control that he had had to learn.

"You don't have to stay guys, I can find you at the hotel."

Wrong thing of him to say evidently, by the unimpressed looks he got, by the way that Jackson crossed his arms and Danny raised both brows and Lydia pursed her full lips. Still, he stood his ground, hiking Julianna a little higher on his hip where she continued to cling.

"No Sti, we're not going anywhere." Danny, with his cool patience that never seemed to run out anymore, the soft smile on his face that folded the skin around the corners of his mouth with wrinkles from laughter.

Shaking her head, Lydia took a few steps forward, adjusting one of his daughters pigtails and giving him a smile. There, that was the Lydia he knew, even if it was only a glimpse of her from where she was buried under all the makeup and expensive clothing.

"He's our Dad too Stiles."

Something warm was in his chest then where his heart beat like it wanted to explode, and the same warmth was in his eyes even as he smiled, a little bit pained and a little bit wobbly as he tried not to let it be a little bit wet.

"Alright."

.

Hospitals were horrible.

No, that was wrong, they weren't all horrible.

Just this one, this one hospital with halls that he knew like he knew his own house by the time he was 9, with its echoes at night and its ghosts that never seemed to fade.

This hospital was a nightmare all in itself, from days spent asleep in the exact same chair as he watched his Mom fade away before his eyes as the cancer took her, to the way that he had almost died at the hands of Peter and his creepy nurse (who's body they hadn't found, he had checked. Meaning, she was still rotting somewhere in that truck, but that was something he tried not to think about too often), and even to his very last encounter with something dangerous when he had almost been crushed by that vending machine that totally wasn't his fault.

He knew how this place worked though, knew what numbers were on what floor and that the people at the nurses station never left their post unless they ran out of coffee or needed a bathroom break. He knew that they liked children, and that there was a near constant supply of Jolly Ranchers in the second drawer of the desk encase they had a child that was there for an extensive amount of time because of a parent or sibling.

A child like him, because even with his daughter balanced on his hip and the familiar warmth of her burning against his side, he could still hear the constant smacking echo of his feet on the floor. Her little chatter did nothing to make him feel better or chase away the demons that lurked in every shadow that the bright florescent lights cast upon the things around him. Happy little words, questioning things on if she got to see her Grampa again and if he'd missed her since he'd come out to see them at Christmas, but her happy little words could only spread the happy so far and there was only so much smiling he could force himself to do in a place like this.

He wasn't in the same room as her, thankfully.

In fact, he wasn't in a room anywhere near hers, which was enough to give Stiles a little peace of mind, though it wasn't much.

And he was terrified still to even move, heart pounding something awful in his ears to the point that he could practically taste it on his tongue in all its metallic glory.

Grip a little tighter on his daughter, it was all he could do to stare at the door in front of them, not moving an inch. He couldn't hear her, but he knew Julianna was still talking, she chattered on just as much as he ever had at her age, and he had a feeling there would be a dosage of Adderall sometime in her future.

He couldn't seem to move though, couldn't bring himself to take a deep enough breath, to take a few steps, or to reach out with the free hand he had. The door was right there, glaring at him like only an inanimate object could glare, and it hurt.

That wasn't right.

It shouldn't have been this hard, he just had to open the door, that was it. No nurse he had to talk to, no code he had to punch in so nothing exploded or imploded or did any other type of ploding that he didn't know about yet.

But he couldn't, and his baby was looking up at him with something wide on her face, and that wasn't helping either.

Nothing was helping, and he thought he was going to be sick, clasping his little blonde baby girl a little tighter and staring, listening, because he could hear it, the steady beeping of a heart monitor on the other side of the door and the faint mumblings of the television.

He couldn't move though, he could barely breathe, and Jackson was there.

Jackson was there, clasping a hand on his shoulder and rubbing his thumb against the divot of his spine, gently easing him forward even as Danny opened the door and Lydia wandered her way inside, little lace pearl dress swaying around her thighs.

"Daddy, you said you've been being careful."

He couldn't see him yet, but he could hear him, the startled sound he made, the quick blip on the machine and the chuckling laughter that filled the air. He could picture it, sort of, and he really didn't have to, because his father probably had his arms up and open wide for the woman who was like a daughter to him, if the way Lydia moved out of his line of sight was anything to go by.

Danny went next, giving the two of them a long look before reaching his hand out and taking Julianna, the wide eyed little girl watching him for a minute more before going with her uncle and letting out an excited squeal.

"Grandpa!"

His throat was tight, and he couldn't breathe he was so nervous, so sick from it all.

Jackson's hand clamped a little tighter on his shoulder, and the tall blonde gave him an understanding smile, watching as he rocked on his heels.

"Whenever you're ready."

Except it wasn't whenever he was ready, it had to be soon. It had to be now, because his father had waited long enough, who was Stiles to make him wait any longer?

It was just as he'd pictured though, the room smelled the same, like sterile and medicated, but his knees didn't give out like he thought they would, and there was nothing there to make him lean against the wall. No tumbling curls of soft tawny blonde-brown spread out across the pillow, thin where they were falling out, no slender, pale fingers reaching out to him even as she fought to smile.

Instead, there was his Dad, looking tired with wrinkles from laughter and stress around his eyes and mouth. Grey peppered his brown hair, streaks of it from his temples that were entirely Stiles' fault, he knew that with a little grin of pride. His Dad, with a wide smile on his weathered face and his arms full of two girls, one of them situated in his lap as best she could be with her pigtails already coming loose, while the other sat beside him with her legs curled up, green eyes bright with laughter and love.

"Hey Dad."

"Stiles!"

Another happy grin, and maybe, if he squinted, his Dad wouldn't be sitting in a hospital bed. Maybe, if he squinted hard enough, he wouldn't see the exhaustion in the mans shoulders and the lines of hunger and tension that ran through his bones. He wasn't the only one who could see it though, and he knew from the way the tendons rippled on Jackson's neck that there was something wrong.

But it was going to wait, because Lydia was kissing his cheek and Danny was pulling a chair up to sit next to the bed, already talking to the man they had all missed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Well, its official: I'm not a high school student anymore. **

**That's uh, a bit of a terrifying thing to think about actually. And, with the course I'm on, give me about a handful of years and I'll be a history teacher!**

**So, anyway, I want to thank everyone for the reviews I've been getting on this story, I really am sorry with how slow updates have been coming along. I've got...well, my program starts on June 10th (my program starts early) and so I might as well get going on this chapter. Enjoy, and please do tell me what you think.**

**Correction! I'm in college, and this shit is hard!**

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The others had stayed for about an hour.

Not even a full hour really, just long enough for John to find out that oh, they were planning on staying in a hotel, since neither Lydia or Jackson wanted to even begin to deal with their families, and Danny didn't exactly have a warm blood welcome of any type to return to. The Sheriff had pitched a bit of a fit, enough to make the machine that measured his heart rate give a series of accelerated bleeps and his face turn a flushed red before his son had managed to calm him down.

That ordeal being dealt with, it had been decided that the visiting group would be staying at the Stilinski household for however long they actually stayed in Beacon Hills.

Now, an hour later, the room was empty of its laughter, deserted of its bright smiles and its warm float of voices. It felt steril again, colder and clean and medicated so heavily that the air stank even to his human nose. The air was humming with the same noises that he remembered from the last time he was in a hospital like this, and from the constant beeping to the endless dripping sound from the IV, his skin had started to itch, and all Stiles wanted to do was scratch at it till it all peeled away.

Danny had been the first one to stand, bit of a tired smile on his face as he bent to scoop up the sleeping form of Julianna. Taking her from her father had been the easy part, the young man just as exhausted as she felt, and he'd watched with a small nod as the tanned man maneuvered the sleeping mound of child till she was draped across his chest, arms hanging over his shoulders.

Lydia had been next, with something more understanding on her features and a soft scratch of her nails across John's scalp, smiling down at him before moving her gaze over to Stiles. She'd left a lipstick stain on his temple, half an imprint of a kiss that he'd given up trying to rub away since he knew damn well it wasn't going anywhere, and he'd just watched. Watched as she'd kissed her husband and whispered words against his mouth that only the were had been able to hear before following after Danny with a soft reminder that she'd have some dinner by the time they got to the house.

And then it was just him and Jackson left with his father, remaining when the other three had ventured to safer, more familiarly distant place where they could rest their weary bones and prepare for whatever battle deemed fit to head their way.

Hunched over as he was, his forearms were left to support his weight on the points of his knees, neck low and his head lower still as he took breaths through his mouth.

"You said you were doing fine."

No matter how quiet his voice was, it felt like he was shouting in the near silent room.

Exhaustion clung to every single thing he said, and it was with a bit of a struggle that he said the words at all.

Up on the bed, his dad had the sense of mind to sound insulted, like Stiles was being stupid for even thinking he wasn't doing anything but perfect. A scoff, a gruff cough, and he clenched his fists, knowing what was coming next.

"I was going fine, just had a bit of an accident."

Groaning, he pulled at his hair then, tipping his head to look over at Jackson with something pleading in his eyes, but the blond werewolf was already ahead of him. Nose curled, brows furrowed, the mans mouth was set in a firm line of disapproval that matched the worry that weighed on his shoulders.

"You reek of death, John, that's not fine."

"That's not fair, son."

Jerking his head up, eyes bright and burning, Stiles bared his teeth at his father in a bit of a snarling scowl, every tendon in his neck and twitch on his face laced with pain.

"We really don't give a fuck if its fair, Dad, you lied to us."

His father was lying in a hospital bed, and he wanted to talk about sensory fairness.

Pushing himself up from his seat, his motions caused his chair to go skidding back where it bumped against the wall. Beside him, his best friend let out a bit of a canine sound, a near grunt that he heard from time to time, something that came about when he had a momentary pause of not knowing what to do when on of his pack wasn't happy and fine.

And currently, Stiles was neither happy, nor fine.

"Sti-"

"You had a heart attack, Dad!"

Voice echoing in the small room, a cold silence settled over the group, John with his eyes wide, Jackson's averted and Stiles feeling close to frustrated tears.

Heart pounding in his ears, Stiles stared at his father for a long time, watching as the mans face filled with a shamed red frustration, before that faded into an equally as shamed pallor that seeped down his neck to hide under the hospital gown in turn.

He wasn't so lucky however, blood rushing in his ears and his body trembling in a near painful way while his breathing came in quick, sharp bursts.

"Stil-"

Holding up a hand, face growing wet around his eyes when he blinked too hard, the young father closed his eyes tightly, lips pressed into a pale line.

"Just, don't even fucking, I can't." Jaw clenching, he exhaled through his teeth, body vibrating and his face hot with emotion when he forced his eyes open. It wasn't her though, she wasn't laying there in that bed. She wasn't watching him with that tired smile of hers, with those exhausted eyes and her sick, sallow face. There were no soft curls on the pillow, no thin fingers grasping at his, and there was no sweet scent of her perfume.

Meredith would never smile at him like that again though.

The dead couldn't smile.

"I watched her die, Dad."

No words, but in their place came a low, pained sound from his father, but he ignored it as quickly as he had heard it.

"I watched her wilt away in one of these beds. I watched her hair fall out, and her body get so skinny she couldn't even hold her head up, and I was all alone. Because you were too fucking scared, and you hid away in your office, behind your badge and your paperwork. I was here alone when she died, and I was eight. Eight fucking years old Dad, I, you," Pulling at his hair, he let out a quiet whine, face hot and wet and his voice a broken mess. "You can't fucking expect me to just be okay with this, you can't, I can't bury you too."

More silence, because his father didn't seem to know what to say with his words, but the man looked ready to be ill. And Jackson, his friend must have been scenting him enough to know that it was better if he just kept his opinions to himself for the moment, because he got nothing but an understanding, warm look and a bit of a nod in the direction of the door.

That was all he needed to mutter a quiet, wobbling 'I love you,' to his silent father before turning on his heel and rushing from the room.

.

Without a doubt, Jackson knew that the scene at the hospital could have gone a lot better.

It could have gone so much better in fact, that he wished he could pop his claws through the backs of a few peoples skulls and force them to _sit_ there and _talk_.

Except, one thing he knew, was that Stilinski men didn't talk.

Oh, no, no, he knew from experience, first hand too, that Stilinski men didn't talk when they needed to get something out.

No, because they made a mess, they shouted and they broke things and they cried.

Correction, Stilinski men didn't make a mess, Stilinski men _were_ a mess.

Rubbing a hand at the back of his head, fingers threading through the blond strands, he leaned against the mailbox for a minute, eyes downcast.

His pack, this was his pack, his friends, who had become his family. What was he supposed to do with this, how was he to fix something like this, when he couldn't even fix the problem to begin with?

Stiles wasn't going to talk about it, he knew that without even having to guess. Hell, the man was his best friend, all wide eyes and quickly moving limbs, he knew by now without even having to guess that there wasn't going to be any talking involved. No talking, because swearing didn't count as talking, because swearing was a kind of something that Julianna wasn't allowed to hear. And there was going to be a lot of swearing, he knew that already, because he'd seen his friend this emotionally stretched a few time before, and it was never something he enjoyed.

Heaving himself away from the mailbox, Jackson trudged his way up the sidewalk and into the house, shoulders hunched a bit and his hands in his pockets.

There was a hint of something defeated in his eyes, in the length of his sigh, because how was he supposed to fix this?

"Lydia, baby, I'm home."

A soft call from the front room where he toed his shoes off, and already he could hear his wife mumbling quietly to herself in the kitchen.

Rolling his shoulders, he gave a glance around the room that was exactly like he remembered it being, all the way down to the same large cough that tried to eat anyone who dared sit on it, let alone sleep, and it was with a bit of a smile that he wandered through the house.

Planting himself in one of the sturdy wooden chairs, he watched her sway to whatever tune she was trying to carry, tone just a few octaves off and a bit out of focus, but that was alright, he didn't mind.

"Dinner's not for another half an hour. Julianna already ate, and Danny just put her in for bed." Tipping her head at him, her curls were a fair mess, wound up so they dripped from the crown of her head in a tail, and she'd taken most of the makeup off of her face. Around the green of her eyes were still smudges of black however, and he could see more of it on her knuckles where she'd rubbed at her face.

It'd been a long day for all of them then.

"C'mere."

Snagging his fingers in the back of her dress when she wandered close enough, he pulled his pale wife closer to him, settling her familiar weight in his lap. One arm looping around the small of her back, he held her closer, chin nestled onto her shoulder so he could smell her where her scent was strongest against the slope of her throat. A distinct little hum lifted from her as she adjusted herself, looping her legs over and crossing them, leaning against him with a tired sigh.

They worked like this, with his fingers drawing patterns across the skin of her back through the lace fabric, and her nails playing with the short hairs at the back of his neck. Worked, with his lips against her throat, and her heart a slow, steady cantor that matched his beat for beat. He didn't know if they could be any other way, they always fell together like this, no matter how they argued, or how much they tried to hate each other.

He knew, they'd tried it before, his father had tried it before, in shipping him off to London for a few months till Jackson had put his foot down.

An American werewolf in London, really?

"Stiles hasn't come home yet."

"I know."

Closing her eyes, she pressed herself a little closer to him, and he could feel her heartbeat against his lips through her frail skin.

"Jackson, I'm worried about him."

"He's a big boy, Lydia, he can take care of himself."

He felt her breath rush across the top of his head as she scoffed, and her nails ticked across the back of his head.

"I don't want him out there alone."

"You can't baby him forever."

Quickly, though not quick enough that he couldn't have stopped her if he had really wanted to, she leaned back, cupping his jaw with both hands and forcing his cheeks up a bit, mouth puckering faintly from the press. Her eyes were narrowed on him, and there were wisps of strawberry blonde that had freed themselves from the ponytail to dance around her head with a gravity defying static sway. Shaking him, she puffed, and he watched as his little wife looked just as tired as she surely felt, and just as worried.

"I don't want him seeing McCall, or Allison, or-"

"Lydia."

"What if Derek see's him? Then what do we do Jackson?"

The air fell quiet, though thankfully, it wasn't anywhere near as cold as the atmosphere at the hospital had been. Still, that was something, a thought, one he didn't want, but one he would probably have to deal with since his friend was out there on his own, and Beacon Hills was only so big.

"Then we deal with it, Lydia. We'll do what we've always done, we'll deal with it."

.

"He's stubborn as shit."

Underhand, the grass was dry, whatever dew had been on it that morning had dried up completely, and so it was almost stiff to the touch. Beneath it, there was dirt, little insects that gave him a wide birth where he sat, legs stretched out a bit and his arms folded over them. The sunlight was broken, intercepted by the large leaves from the maple tree a few feet away, and if he stretched his foot a little farther out, he'd be able to hook it over one of the exposed roots where it curved up.

He'd stripped his shoes off, had left them somewhere a few feet away from him, and so his toes were curled in the grass. Mirroring them, he fiddled with the fistful of green blades that he held, eyes intent ahead of him.

"I don't know who he gets that from, honestly, because it isn't from me, so it must be from you."

Silence, and he scrubbed a hand over his face and the back of his head all at once, pulling at his mouth so that when he moved his hand, it made a wet smacking sound as it jerked back into place.

"Alright, alright, whatever, he get's it from me. Don't get all worked up about it."

All that answered him was silence, a soft, sweet kind of silence that was mournful in its embrace, and his toes curled a little tighter in the grass.

"He's been drinking, again, Lydia texted me, found about four bottles of Jack in the cabinet. The sink probably got a nice buzz when she poured them out." Rubbing at his eyes, he sighed, turning his head sharply to crack his neck.

"Don't know who he thinks he's kidding."

The stone was old, a warm kind of red brown that was just as smooth as it had been the first day years ago. The grass was still crisp, and there were those same little blue wild flowers there that had sprouted up within a months time once the dirt had settled. He'd brought her flowers, daffodils and calla lilies that he had scooped up from Mrs. Simmons yard on the way over, an old habit that the aging widow never caught onto.

"Jesus Mom, I'm too young for this."

_Meredith Stilinski_, the stone read in a soft, scrawling script, looping and low like her own hand writing had been.

To the touch, it was warm, or it would be if he touched it anyways, heated from the sunlight and blisteringly humid air. Except, it was rare for him to actually ever touch it, felt too personal, too intimate an action for him to even want to begin and deal with.

"I've got a baby girl who doesn't understand why her Granpa's stuck in a hospital bed. She's five Mom, she doesn't underst-I don't want her to understand any of this, and he's being so fucking stubborn about it, saying he's fine and dandy."

Waving a hand in the air, the fistful of grass he had sailing through the breeze to land on him in wayward chunks, a few of them clinging to his hair.

"He's not fine. Danny hacked into his credit card -don't even tell me how wrong that is, I'm at the point that I don't care-. and the last few months worth of transactions have been one bottle of liquor after the other."

Alright, so his father was probably an alcoholic.

"He's put himself on a hard liquid diet, and I don't want to know what it's done to his liver, but the doctors probably plan on telling me, next of kin and all. And as much as I'd rather it be next of kin because of like, alcohol poisoning, one of these days they're going to be calling me down to the morgue if he keeps this up."

Sighing, he nudged one of the flowers with his bare toes, gazing at the stone with a melancholy sadness that he was still so used to that he had to tear his eyes up to the sky. Used to it or not, it hurt, took his breath away with the despair from the fact that she simply wasn't there any longer.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

Leaning back, he rested his head in the grass with a defeated, drawn out sigh, one arm throwing itself over his eyes as he continued to mumble.

Back, a few rows back where the trees were heavier and the air was darker, more befitting for the mausoleums that took up that section of the grounds, a pair of wide eyes watched him.

Shoulders stiff with disbelief, pale eyes alight with something so painfully close to hope, Derek watched the younger man with a bated breath.


	6. Chapter 6

**Greetings loved ones! **

**So, I tried really hard to get this one out sooner, I'm so sorry for the wait that I've been putting you people through. I have 3 more weeks until this summer semester is over, and then I get a 2 week break till i have to start my fall semester. I'm half way through having an associates degree! Someone be proud of me, please, I just graduated high school in June! **

**So, we have feels, much feels, many many feels here for you to feet your eyes upon, and so I do hope you enjoy them. And leave me reviews, because oh my god you have no idea how much I love reading those in the middle of class when I can actually get to my email. **

**And I got a private message to, let me tell you, I squealed at lunch, so yeah. CJ Battlefront said she wanted me to update soon, so here you go darling, I pushed myself hard just for you! **

**Well, for everyone else too, but still, she motivated me.**

**And now, without me continuing in my rambles that I don't think anyone really reads, enjoy the feels, embrace the feels, and please do leave me some reviews, I love them so!**

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Just when it seemed like things had decided to finally slow and settle, trouble kicked itself back up again. Nothing was as simple as he would have liked, not in Beacon Hills anyway, and there was no way for him to get around it.

Time did little to change that.

Before he'd been able to get a handle on his pack, before he had been able to hold them all together, they had been falling apart at the seams, and he had been the glue that didn't know how to stick.

Some Alpha he was.

Now though, after all the blood and the fighting, all the pain that the Alpha pack had rained down on them, they were stronger. They worked better, they moved faster, and they were far more efficient.

Far more dangerous.

And they were his, his pack, his family, his sword to wield and his home to protect.

A pack is nothing without an Alpha.

They hadn't wanted to listen to him, they'd simply wanted the power that had come with being something different, something powerful and fierce.

An Alpha was nothing without a pack.

He hadn't been strong enough to protect them, he hadn't known enough to keep them together, and he hadn't been weathered enough to know how to defend them, lead them.

That was why he'd forced Scott's hand.

If he couldn't protect his pack, his beta's, how could he possibly ever hope to protect his mate?

Making the boy push Stiles away, force him out and into Jacksons claws was the only thing he could do at the time that was right.

Jackson wasn't one of them, not really.

He was better than them, truthfully, even though at the same time he was worse, so much worse.

He would keep Stiles safe though, would make him stronger, healthier, and happier.

Even if that happier came without _him_.

Wistfully, Derek sighed, clenched hand crumbing the empty Styrofoam cup in his grasp till it was nothing more than a crinkled mass of squealing plastic. A few drops of leftover coffee found their way to his skin, and with a grumbling sigh, he swept his hand to the side, tossing the remains of the cup into the trash while he shook his fingers out. Little drops of coffee splattered over his desk then, and once more he sighed, callused fingers scratching back through his hair.

Erica was going to pup soon, he should have been happy.

Hell, everyone else was, Scott acting like an over-excited little pup himself, tripping over his own paws in his attempts to keep the she-wolf happy, peddling a no doubt soon to be pregnant Allison with him wherever he went.

Boyd was more than happy, love-struck and doting like any husband should be over his feisty little wife, his disposition just as excited as Scott's.

Even Isaac had managed to come out of his stupor, his haunted blue eyes brightening a little bit and his mouth lifting at the corners with that happy smile that was only a shadow of the grin it had once been.

It was something though, something more than his near whimpering breaths and his perpetual scent of sadness that followed him wherever he went, the stench of pain that was so thick it was tangible. It followed him like a cloud, thick and consuming, and it had seemingly sucked all the happiness out of the young veterinarian.

Honestly, he hadn't been the same in a long, long time.

Nothing had been the same in a long, long time.

"Deputy?"

"Hm?"

Tipping his head, pale eyes filled with the same kind of question that made a little sound in the back of his throat, rumbling with itself, he gave the girl from the front desk an imploring look.

"Melissa called. She said John's looking better."

Nodding, he craned his neck back, letting it crack in a quick series of audible pops, catching out of the corner of his vision as the woman cringed.

"Thanks Carey."

A glance to the clock, and he sighed, pushing his comfortable chair back away from his neat, large desk, hands bracing against the edge of the dark wood so he could stand.

"You know how to reach me if I'm needed."

"Going somewhere, sir?"

She wasn't his type, even though she was trying hard enough to make it obvious. Her perfume was too strong, the wrong kind of scent, and her eyes weren't the right kind of color. He needed brown eyes, not blue, brown hair, not blond. He had no place for her peachy skin and her lack of freckles, and her laugh wasn't nearly as sharp and booming as he liked.

Carey Evans wasn't his type, no matter how hard she tried.

Nobody was, not anymore, nobody that he could have anyways.

Somewhere deep inside, his wolf gave a whimper, damning him, scorning him.

"I've got some errands to run for John."

Brushing past her, broad shoulders wrapped easily in the tan colors of the officers uniform, he grappled a hand at the doorway, feeling it for a moment before flicking the switch that turned off the light to his office. She was looking up at him, hopeful in a way that hurt him to see, because this wasn't his fault any more than it was hers.

Except, it was his fault, wasn't it?

It seemed like everything was anymore.

"Dere-"

"Carey," Turning his head to look down at her, Derek gave the blonde woman a sad, patient smile that had her falling silent as he shook his head. "I'm sorry, but no."

Her mouth closed up and her cheeks grew pink from her embarrassment, but he just gave her another look before continuing out and down the hall for the door to the parking lot.

"You need to let somebody care for you Derek," She called from somewhere behind him, safely behind her counter once more. "Or you're going to die alone."

Face falling, eyes dropping down to the pavement as he walked, keys clasped tight in his grasp, he stopped short of his beloved Camaro, easily finding his reflection in the shiny black surface just as he could find her heartbeat in the wind, her words through the wood and glass.

And though she couldn't hear him, he gave a soft sigh in response.

"I can only hope."

.

He'd pushed himself through the Police Academy to finish the training that he'd started out in New York, resolve pressing him hard to take care of not only himself, but also his pack.

He'd pushed and pushed, forcing himself though the classes and the inspections, the training and the tasing, all the pain and the sweat and the frustrations to get where he was today.

He couldn't keep his mate close, couldn't protect him, but he could damn well take care of the boy's father.

It had taken him two years just to get certification to be an officer in Beacon Hills County.

Two years to be called an officer, and another four of working under the hard Stilinski man before he'd been promoted to Deputy.

In the run of it, he'd been shot at more times than he could count, tased more than he liked to admit, and practically humiliated by all the wild goose chases he'd been sent on.

It was worth it though.

It meant he got to see his mate's father, a man who knew everything, because Derek had refused to keep it a secret from him any longer.

The blow had been softened by the fact that the man already knew, partially anyways, because of Jackson. Jackson and Lydia and Stiles and Danny, tough little band of misfits who had landed themselves in the thick of it in Manhattan, of all places.

John knew, because Jackson had wolfed out, middle of the living room when Stiles had gotten just a little too pushy.

Surprisingly, the man had taken it better than he would have thought. Finding out your Deputy was a werewolf was a tough concept to grasp, but the man had simply taken it in stride like it didn't really matter. He still treated Derek the same: they still had stakeouts late at night when their tempers were high and they just needed to sit in the dark with a burger and a thing of curly fries, they still went to the shooting range and he still got the case flow that he needed to stay listed as the Deputy.

He'd also told the man about the Alpha's, about what had happened and what could have happened, and why he'd forced Scott's hand.

It had taken a bottle of scotch and a months' worth of night shift's for the man to forgive him for that one.

From the very beginning of his work at the BHPD, he'd known about the Sherriff's habit, how he took flowers out to his wife every other day. He would take away the old ones before they could wilt, and replace them with the newer, fresher ones. And he would sit there, and talk to her, for minimum of an hour, for however long he could till he was pulled away by a call or the reminder of paperwork.

When the heart attack had happened, Derek had been there.

He'd smelled it on John before it had even happened, the stench of something bitter and sharp, metallic and different than anything the man usually smelled like.

It hadn't clicked though, he hadn't really known what it was until it had started, and the man had pushed his hand roughly to his chest, choking on air. Cursing, Derek had moved to support the man as he crumbled, keeping his head elevated and doing his best to keep the man breathing as he barked orders for someone to call an ambulance.

Terrifying, it had been ridiculously terrifying in a way that he was more than used to, but it was something he never wanted to experience again.

Figures though, two days later, that he should have known something was wrong.

Isaac was smiling.

Not just smiling, actually, because when he'd peddled down the stairs of the renovated Hale house in search of something to eat before he headed in for his shift, Derek had found the younger man in the kitchen as well, with a wide grin that was fairly close to manic.

Grinning.

Isaac, the tall, curly haired man who had turned into a shadow of the boy he had once been.

Isaac, with his haunted blue eyes and his quiet mumbling words, the fidgeting way that he would tug at his sleeves and pull them down over his thumbs.

Unsettled, though pleased with the revelation, Derek stood stock still to watch the younger man, fingers itching for a bowl of cereal.

"Isaac? Is everything alright?"

"Everything's perfect."

"Uh huh."

Nodding once, twice, Derek scratched at the side of his head, uniform shirt stretching across his chest as he moved slowly for a bowl and the milk.

Shifting back and forth quickly, rocking with the motions, Isaac took a wide step to the left, propelling himself out of the Alpha's way before he could really be in it.

"I don't know why everything's perfect," His voice held the same dreamy quality to it that it had had the first time he spoke, and though it was stronger than it had been in years, that wide grin was still stretching his lips. "But I woke up this morning, and everything feels…perfect."

A sigh, just as dreamy as his words had been, and Derek shook his head.

Reaching out, fingers curled, he ruffled the younger man's hair with as much affection as he could muster in the morning, forgoing breakfast to head to the door instead.

"Well, try to stay perfect today, alright?"

"Got it!"

The door clicked shut behind him, and he chuckled to himself as he took the stairs down in one leap to the forest floor, car keys in hand.

.

Now, with the soft grave yard grass underfoot, and the cool wind blowing against his face, Derek could see why things were different.

There, a few yards ahead of him, sat a figure in front of the very stone he was supposed to be visiting.

The body that had once been simply lanky, had turned into something rangier instead, with well-defined muscles showing with the exposed skin that had been turned darker and golden with the sunlight. Dark hair was the same, though it was longer, and the front of it had been combed through and up into a style by fingers that surely weren't his own. Square framed glasses, a strong jaw and that same sloping, upturned nose, and Derek felt something in his stomach clench.

There were words, floating on the air, a quiet conversation that he didn't know how he had missed, and it made him want to run, the sound of that voice. Except, he didn't know if he wanted to run towards it, or away from it.

Everything in him was screaming at him to go, to move, because he was right there, he could hear him in his ears and taste his scent in the back of his throat.

The sweetest type of torture after all these years.

Every Christmas, the Sherriff had requested a week off for the past eight years, and he'd disappeared from their sleepy neck of the woods in northern California to head out east, to the bitter, biting, cold New York to be with his family during the holidays.

Every Thanksgiving was the same, and no one at the station had ever tried to fight the man on it anytime he took a vacation out there to see his son and granddaughter.

Everyone knew without saying a word that Stiles would never come back to Beacon Hills.

_Lies_.

He was there, right there, less than a run away from Derek, and he couldn't fucking move an inch.

His eyes were burning, though if it were from the shift or frustrated moisture he wasn't sure, neither would surprise him, and he clenched his fist tighter around the bundle of flowers that he held.

No doubt he looked like a fool to anyone who saw him, a Deputy, standing in the shade of a grave yard with a wrapped bundle of tulips in hand, too nervous to go forward and just _set the fucking things down_.

How juvenile was this?

But Stiles was there, his mate was there, right there in front of him, like he hadn't been for the longest of time, and now he understood that feeling that Isaac had been trying to talk about that morning before he'd gone into work.

Perfect, everything was perfect.

So suddenly, everything was sharper, crisper, more alive before him, and yet surely nothing had really changed?

A quiet ring, a jarring tune from a song he'd heard once or twice on the radio, and the object of his undying love and frustration leaned to the side a little, long fingers fishing in his pocket. Out came a phone, shiny and dark, and he swiped his thumb across the screen before holding it to his ear.

_"Lydia's freaking the fuck out."_

A snort.

"I'm sure she'd have your pelt if she heard you say that."

_"Shuddup, she's still inside. Fuck, I forgot how hot this place was, feel like my nu-"_

"Jackso-on!" A whine, and he batted at the air in front of him, smacking his hand down across his glasses and eyes in exasperation. "I really, really don't want you to finish that sentence. Like, ever. Never, never, never, you understand me, bro-code only goes so far and your balls are none of my concern."

There was a small huff of laughter from the other side of the line, and the tension that was left in the young man's shoulders melted away before his eyes.

Silence settled then, but he got the impression that it was something more, something deeper, if the way the air suddenly felt that much lighter and the scent of anxiety faded that much more was any hint.

_"Sti-"_

"Jackson, I'm fine."

_"Genim."_

"Alright, I'm not fine, but I'm as close to it as I'm going to get right now."

More silence.

_"Danny already put Ju-Ju up to bed, bout an hour ago."_

"God, I love that man." Wincing, nearly whimpering, Derek drew back, shoulders tensing and his wolf giving a sound of pain from somewhere inside his soul that had him shutting his eyes tight. Stiles meant it, there was pure affection in his tired tone, and it made him want to claw his own heart out. "I'll be home in a few minutes, alright? I just…need to say good night."

_"You're fine, just be careful, alright? We've got enough drama going on right now without you drawing attention."_

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I hear ya'. I'll see you in a bit."

A click, and the line was dead, and with a little grumbling sound as he talked to himself, Stiles shuffled the phone into his pocket before stretching for his shoes. From there, he shoved them on his feet, rolling his ankles before forcing himself to stand. A bend at the waist, and he pressed a kiss to the top of the stone, standing there for a few minutes. Softly, his fingers danced across it, and Derek watched as he gave a slight squeeze before pulling away, moving away.

The grass crinkled under his feet, and after a few minutes of watching, the boy was gone, even though the torrent of emotions he'd brought with him raged on inside Derek even as he stood there numbly.

It took him a long few minutes, and then his body seemed to move for him, pushing him to his car and driving him down the tree-shaded lane that went to the Preserve, and the Hale house within it.

Brakes squealing, the sound of burning rubber filled his nose with its bitter smell, and he left the keys in the ignition even as the engine went to sleep.

His chest was heaving by the time he got inside, and the door slammed behind him with a loud bang that echoed throughout the house. He paid it no mind though, pressing both hands to his eyes as his bones trembled with a mixture of excitement and pained frustration.

"Derek?"

It hurt, he'd been right there, so close that he could have gone out and touched him, pulled him in close and never let him go.

Groaning, shaking his head, he shuddered at the feel of a hand on his shoulder, and with wild eyes, he found Erica looking up at him, looking more like a house pet than a she-wolf with her pale curling hair piled up on top of her head and not a trace of makeup on her face.

"He's back."

So quiet a whisper even she couldn't hear it, and her eyes narrowed with concern.

"Derek, what's wron-"

"It-He," A swallow, thick, and from up the grand set of stairs, he could feel Scott's questioning eyes peering down at them.

"Stiles. Stiles it back."


	7. Chapter 7

**Greetings! Been working on this chapter through my free moments in class, and checking the messages that come with the last chapter all the same. Got to say, I'm not even sorry for any angst or feels I give you, because well, at least you enjoy what I'm writing! **

**I got a message from a lovely someone, who teased me about my slow burn (Once again, I'm not even sorry. Passion goes better when it starts at a slow simmer), and I got a mention of mpreg, that had me trying my damnedest not to laugh in my English class. I ended up snorting for my troubles.**

**Now, while I like the idea, because I'm a sucker for that kind of thing myself, it just wouldn't work with how I've set this story up so far. Derek and Stiles have _never_ been together, ever apart from fantasies on both of their parts that I don't feel like even thinking about right now because I'm trying to munch a poptart and wait for my class to start.**

**I've been tapping away on my iPod at lunch too, I've gotten an idea finally for my Stisaac story, and it's so angsty in my head right now that I don't know what to do with it. I'm not trying to kill you all, I swear, just, angst, it's so...easy!**

**Been listening to the entire time I've been trying this, it's beautiful, my radio in the kitchen picked it up the other day and I got so confused, because it's an irish-scottish-gaelic station and I live in shit central Indiana.**

**But, anyway, hey, look, there's a new chapter up!**

**Because I love you!**

* * *

Lydia had wanted to take Julianna shopping, and while he wasn't too keen on the thought of his daughter having another pair of Technicolor shorts for her little legs, or another little dress that she would only get dirty in a matter of minutes, he wasn't going to be the one to tell the resident redhead no.

Lydia had wanted to take Julianna shopping, and Stiles valued his balls just a bit too much to let her bust them over something as stupid as a shopping trip.

So his baby was down in LA for the day, which was fine, both girls had needed the distraction from the medical and the frustrations.

Both girls were down in LA, and Jackson had been pulled aside by Danny, because the man's parents had found out they were in town –really, honestly, it was probably really fucking hard to miss them, they were Jackson and Lydia Whittemore, Danny Mahealani and Stiles Stilinski, who didn't know them in this town? Never mind his modesty, Lydia was shit for those- and demanded that they have a dinner together.

No doubt they were hoping their son had somehow 'reformed himself', as they'd snubbed the last time they had seen them that fateful last day eight years ago.

Whatever, his parents could suck it, Stiles thought Danny was the shit.

In a totally non-sexual way, because sure, yeah, Danny was _hot_, but so not his type.

But, with the four constants in his life being all tied up and busy, Stiles was fucking _lonely_.

Like, lonely like he was contemplating sliding himself up under his Dad's squad car that was sitting in the drive way and seeing just how the tax-write-off really worked, but he knew damn well that it wasn't any different from the last time he'd done that.

Instead, he'd gone to the hospital, because he did need to visit his dad, no matter how frustrated they'd been with each other, despite the fact that the old man had tried to hide it from him.

"Stiles?"

Tensing, shoes squeaking a bit on the shiny floor, he took a deep breath, eyes falling shut as he clenched his fists in his pockets. No harm though, no matter how much he understood that Jackson didn't want people to know that they were in town because of the drama they'd agreed it would cause, there was no harm in talking to one person, even if it was _her_.

Plastering a smile on his face, one that ached to even have, it was wide, but nowhere near as bright as the ones she was probably used to seeing from when he was younger. It wasn't like the ones he had given freely, nowhere near as hectic and shining, he was a little more cracked around the edges now from stress for completely different reasons.

It wasn't her fault, though.

"Hey Melissa."

No, her son had seen to that.

The woman looked tired, a kind of bone deep exhaustion that he felt more than once in his life, and though he felt a rush of sympathy for her, he straightened his back a little more. She didn't deserve his empathy, no matter that it was her son who had wronged him, she had done nothing to try and sway the hateful actions of a teenage boy.

Her dark hair swept up into a knotted tail, she gave him a wide eyed smile, wrinkles around her eyes and the corners of her mouth, like she didn't understand why he was there.

It must had clicked though, because her eyes softened, and the lines around her mouth went away as she gave him a soft coo, moving forward with her arms extended.

"Oh, Stiles, hone-"

None of that, he was having none of her hugging and her touching, no sir, and with a newfound tension in his frame, he took a quick step back from her, moving himself out of her reach.

His smile turned a little strained as she frowned at him, obviously hurt by his quick refusal of her comfort, but Stiles just shook his head.

"I'm here to see my Dad, Melissa."

She was quiet, hurt, but she nodded all the same, and he felt her eyes on his back as he wandered quickly down the hall and away from her.

Damnit, Scott was going to hear about it within half an hour, he knew it.

Any hope Jackson had had about keeping the drama to a minimum just wasn't going to happen.

.

Pushing at his hair, Derek sighed, stretched out in the chair next to John's hospital bed.

The room reeked of medicine, but at least it no longer reeked of death like it had that first night when Derek had almost missed his shift because he had been too busy keeping an eye on the only Stilinski that he ever got to see anymore.

John looked better, less hollow, less washed out. There was color to his cheeks, and he'd pushed himself to sit up in the bed, a few pillows stuffed behind him –no doubt Melissa had pilfered them from some supply room, because what the Sherriff wanted, the Sherriff got around her.

Derek didn't like doing this, but John had been adamant, and he knew he would never hear the end of it if he didn't.

And really, he hated night shift, could anybody begrudge him that?

Four case files sat in the empty chair next to him, and one of them was opened up across his legs so he could read it to his stubborn boss.

"Couple of the officer's put their two cents in, said its random attacks, but it just doesn't add up."

"You think there's a pattern?"

Tipping his head, forehead pressed against his palm, Derek stared across at the man with exasperated pale eyes.

"I think there's a helluva lot more going on here than we know."

"Like the Alpha's."

Shaking his head, he grimaced, eyes going back down to the case files, the gory, bloody pictures that should have made his stomach turn and his throat close. No, he was used to this, this blood and these pale bodies.

He shouldn't have to be used to this.

He was only twenty-eight damnit, he shouldn't have to be used to this.

"No, not like the Alpha's. We took care of them, so unless someone like Deaton decided to go off the edge, they aren't coming back."

He'd made certain of that.

Every Alpha had been torn to shreds, pulled apart limb by limb before they had been buried in turn under a patch of wolfs bane in the far corner of the Preserve, protected by some of the old Druid's magic.

"Well, what do you think then?"

"I think the system's going to shit."

"Derek."

Still, the Stilinski was smiling, chuckling as he rebuked his temperamental Deputy for his grumbled words.

Shrugging, unashamed of himself and what he thought of the system, Derek gave the man a smile, the same kind that he'd become known for around the station.

"I think that there's something going on here that we don't know enough about. We're out of our depth, and we're out of our league since you're cooped up here and Brigham retired last week. We don't know enough to do anything, and we wouldn't do a difference even if we did."

"Talk less like my Deputy and more like an Alpha Derek, what do you think?"

Leaning forward, crinkling the papers with his elbows as the points dug into his knees, his folded hands pressed to his mouth. Eyes narrowing, breath shallowing a little, he fell into a bit of thought, mulling it over through his senses. He was still raw, so tightly strung from having seen his mate after so long of having nothing, that it hurt him to think, but he did it anyways, pushed at the human and pulled at the beast till he could think with a predatory state of mind.

"Someone's playing with us," His tone was darker then as he spoke, less human, more of a growl and grind to the way he spoke, and he swallowed thickly to try to speak around the gravel of it. No matter, John could understand him just fine.

"You've seen the bodies?"

"You told me to."

"And?"

Eyes lifting, Derek watched him with that narrowed, cautious, thoughtful glare that was a common look on his face. Pensive, worried.

An Alpha.

"They didn't smell human. Not their blood, not their bodies, there was nothing to them that smelled human. They didn't even smell like death, they didn't smell like anything at all."

"Derek?"

"There was nothing left in them to smell. They might have been dead, but those bodies were empty for a long time before that."

.

Heart caught somewhere in his chest, it refused to give even a panicked pound, thumping just as it usually did.

He felt like he couldn't breathe though, watching the two of them where they sat so close together.

Of course his Dad was going to have visitors, he was the Sherriff after all, and work like that waited for no man.

But that was Derek Hale, the Derek Hale, sitting next to his father's hospital bed like he belonged there, with his body comfortable in the chair and his words a soft mulling sound to the attending Sherriff. Like he was listening to him, taking the words that Derek said to heart and into consideration, and God damnit, but his dad actually was hanging on every single word.

Every.

Single.

Word.

Worse, what made it so much worse, was that he recognized the fabric that was stretched over Derek's shoulders and torso, the material that went across his long legs, and why the hell was _he_ wearing that?

Why was Derek Hale wearing the Deputy's uniform?

"Are you shitting me?"

At that, both men started, and he felt himself pale at the sight of red-rimmed eyes, the Alpha completely unabashed by the fact that they were before his Dad.

His Dad, of all people, who looked at Derek before he really looked at Stiles, as if checking if _he_ was all right.

Just what in the actual _fuck_?

"Stiles, will you just calm down?"

"Why the fuck is he in a unifo-"

"Stiles!"

Just barely, he caught the heavy look of hurt that was on the broody man's face, which had seemed a lot less broody and a lot more comfortable before he had made his presence known –alright, yes, he had been rude about it, so it wasn't his most shining moment, who could actually fault him for that?

And that little flash of hurt, of pain and resignation and exhaustion was enough to make him feel like he'd just set fire to a cage full of fluffy Golden Retriever puppies.

Because kicking them was so overrated.

"John, its fine." But it didn't sound fine, far from it, actually, and that whole 'I just set a cage full of puppies on fire' feeling got all that much worse as he watched Derek shuffle the papers back into one of the folders and stand. "I need to get back to the station anyways."

Sighing, giving his son a pointed look, his Dad looked far from pleased, but he nodded all the same to the tall man where he stood.

"Alright, just don't pull another all-nighter like you did last time."

There was a bit of silence between them, and a flash of a smile touched Derek's face before he looked up at Stiles again, and it was like a switch had been flipped, because it all drained away just as quickly as it had been there, and he stiffened as he walked past him out the door.

It wasn't until it had clicked shut and the sound of his shoes on the floor was impossible to hear that either man said anything.

"Da-"

"Don't even start."

"Dad,"

"No Stiles, don't 'Dad' me."

Flushing, he clenched his fists, glaring a little at the man where he was laid up, a lot less pale and deathly in the hospital bed, and that was enough to make him feel a bit better, though not by much.

"Do you not remember all the shit he and Scott put me thr-"

"_Genim_."

There, he flinched, eyes closing and his head tipping down a little, from the sharp tone and the quick accusation that filled his father's single word. And fuck, but it was a rare day when he actually got called his name, even if it was by his father, and not the people at the bank.

"Sit down."

Put in his place, he had no room to deny the man, and the chair he took was still warm from Derek's weight.

Derek.

Sighing, John scratched one hand through his short, graying hair, giving his son a long, suffering look as he seemed to mull over his words.

Finally, after the clock had ticked long enough, and the beeping of the machine's hooked up to his father had started to blend in with the sound of his breathing in a way that made him want to bash a hand against his own head, John spoke.

"Yes, I remember the shit he and Scott put you through. I remember you withdrawing, and I remember you getting this upset look on your face when I asked why Scott wasn't hanging around, so I stopped asking. I remember the terrible trio starting to be the only people you talked to, and I remember how happy you were your senior year, and when you went to college. I remember the phone call I got when you were panicking, because you'd gotten drunk and knocked some girl up-"

"Dad."

A long, pleading, whining sound, because no, that hadn't been his finest moment in the history of all of his moments, and he'd had some moments before.

He had fallen off of a couple roofs in his time, been hit by a taxi or two, and had the shit beat out of him by an old man.

"But I also remember having the Hale kid wolf out in my office-"

"What!"

"_And_," A loud continuation, a motion to get Stiles to shut up even as he mumbled to himself about stupid, stupid wolves with their lack of common sense. "I also remember working my ass off to get him drunk within his first month of working with me, just to figure out what the hell happened. Do you know how much Jack it takes to get a werewolf drunk?"

"Actually, I-"

One hand held up, John gave his son the kind of glare he usually only reserved for the interrogation room.

"Don't answer that. Don't answer that, because I don't want to know more about you're under aged shenanigans than I already do."

Grunting, he lifted his shoulders in a shrug, fingers pushing his glasses a little farther up his nose. Arms on his knees, he busied himself by fiddling with the edges of the blanket that was over his father's lap, and John didn't seem anywhere close to telling him to knock it off, which was a good sign.

"And I very, very distinctly remember having a very tanked-up werewolf in my office in the middle of the night, moaning about the fact that he didn't know what else he was supposed to do, how he had to keep the one good thing left in his life safe."

Silent, Stiles watched with wide eyes and a thumping in his chest as his father shook his head, looking up at him with a haggard expression that he hadn't seen since the Kanima incident.

"Dad?"

"He did the only thing he could, Stiles. Hale's a good kid, he just has a hard time showing it."

Groaning, he tipped forward a little bit more, forehead on the edge of the bed. Sighing, he felt his father's fingers as they scrubbed slowly through his short hair, and it made him tip his head into the feel of it. It felt different from the usual blunt scratch of Lydia's nails against his scalp, different even from the ghost of sensation of his mother doing it when his hair was twice as long and far easier to tangle.

"I was a dick, wasn't I?"

"He likes his coffee with three sugars and one cream, and he likes avocado with his Breakfast for Dinner from Maggie's."

.

There was a new girl at the front desk, with blond hair that was free around her shoulders and wide blue eyes.

There were freckles on her tanned cheeks, and a painting of blush over them that balanced with the black of her lashes and the pink on her lips.

She was pretty, in a small town, homely kind of way, though he probably wasn't one with any right to judge since he too was from the same small town, and probably was equally as pretty in a small town, homely kind of way.

Eh, he could dream, if nothing else.

It was awkward as fuck too, standing in front of her with a tall cup of coffee and a bag with a breakfast burrito from Maggie's -Linda had recognized him, thank God for small miracle's, and had known what he needed when he'd muttered about getting apology food for Derek-, and he could practically feel her sizing him up.

"Can I help you?"

"I uh, need to see Der-Deputy Hale."

The look he got was a glare, and she had the nerve to simper at him past the slope of her nose, actually simper, like he was putting her out by asking to see Derek.

"The Deputy's very busy right now since the Sherriff's stuck in the hospital. If you need to talk to him that badly, you can leave him a message, and I'll make sure to give it to him when he gets a moment, Mr…?"

"Stiles, it's, uh, Stiles."

Her smile was less than pleasant, like she was humoring him, and he felt an unhappy bubbling in his stomach.

"Right, Stiles." Like his name was imprudent, or something. He taught five and six year olds for a living, he knew when something was imprudent!

Him not knowing his classroom had an Easy Bake oven till it exploded was imprudent!

"I'll let the Deputy know when he's all done for the evening, all right. He's got a very busy schedule, and a lot of paperwork to make up for since the Sherriff is out of the office, so if you just leave that up here, I'll take it back for him in a few."

Right, and she would probably take all the credit for it too.

This was his apology food, damnit!

"Look, Karen,"

"It's Carey, sir."

Blinking hard, he stared at her for a minute, because seriously, had her parents been a little obsessed with The Incredible's?

"Right, Carey, look, I get you're trying to do your job and all, but I really need to talk to Dere-"

"Mr. Stiles, if you're going to have an attitude with me, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Closing his eyes, he inhaled sharply, letting it out through his nose even as his lips pressed into a thin line.

"It's Stilinski. Stiles Stilinski, and I'm having a really shitty week, alright Kristi? I just flew in from New York, because my Dad, the Sherriff, had a heart attack, I've got a five year old whose in L.A. with her aunt shopping and giving _me_ a heart attack, and I am _so_ not in the mood for your condescending _shit_. So I'm just going to let myself back, because I know where the office is, alright? Kay, thanks."

Before she could tell him no, he'd be damned if she did anyways, he shouldered his way around the counter and behind the frosted glass door that led to all the offices and interrogation rooms.

One left turn, down one hall and two turns to the right, and there it was on a name plate in the door, Deputy Derek Hale, and the sight of it made his tongue curl up a little bit in his mouth.

He knocked, once, and heard a quiet sigh from inside.

"Carey, go away, I've got to get this paperwork finished."

Creaking the door open, his expression was sheepish, and if the hands that held his offerings were trembling, neither of them noticed it. Well, that was mainly because Derek had his head down over the papers at his desk, and Stiles himself was just plain ignoring it.

"I really hope I'm not as annoying as she is."

Inhaling sharply, the eyes that found him were wide, a breathtaking pale grey-green number that really did things to his stomach, and he fought a grimace even as he fought with his sudden libido.

"Stiles."

The look on the man's face, only there for a moment and nothing more, was equal parts panicked and pained, with just a hint of something warm simmering away in those cool green depths. It was gone though the very instant he swore he saw it, and all he found himself watching instead were guarded pale eyes with a closed off expression, the mas mouth pressed into a fair hint of a scowl.

"I think we need to talk."

Jackson was going to kill him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Don't mind me, I'm just in math class right now, not paying a damn ounce of attention.**

**Whatever, no big deal, we're not doing anything for the moment.**

**So, greetings and salutations and all that shit, it's a pleasure to see you again I don't want to be here right now.**

**Three days left, just three days left.**

**Enjoy, read, have an angry Stiles and a constipated Derek, enjoy the feels.**

**I love you all, I think you're all beautiful and wonderful little angels who make me so very happy.**

**Hi CJ, enjoy the chapter honey, and keep on chugging on. That thing we talked about? Yeah, its sorta in here, there's a problem brewing.**

**Otherwise, enjoy, love you all, read and review.**

* * *

Not surprising by any means, but he didn't think he'd seen Derek go that tense in a really, really long time.

The man's shoulders turned into what was pretty damn close to a straight line, and the tendons in his neck stood out against his tanned flesh. He was bracing himself, from the clench in his biceps to the slight puffing of his chest under the uniform, and as much as it made him proud that _he_ was enough to make Derek think he needed to brace himself for impact, it also hurt like a bitch.

His Dad had said that the man had done the only thing he could, and Stiles had him so wound up that he couldn't even relax in his own office now?

Fuck, he felt like the bad guy.

"I uh, was kind of a dick at the hospital."

Lips pressed thin, broody eyebrows pulled down, Derek gave him a look, nothing more, just this contemplative look like he didn't know what to do with him, and he wasn't too sure he liked seeing that.

Silence though, he didn't get any real response, so he moved away from the door with a heavy sigh and warm fingers, because this shit was hot.

The coffee cup made a bit of a sound against the top of Derek's desk, but it was nothing compared to the crinkling sound the brown paper bag made against the dark wood, and he got the pleasure of watching as the man's nostrils flared and his mouth dropped open just a little bit.

Good Derek, enjoy the good food, salivate damnit.

He spent money on this apology shit.

"My Dad said he got you drunk."

He really, really wasn't good at this.

The other man let out a bit of a huff, watching him with those eyes that didn't even flicker down to the cup or the bag, and with a determined set to his mouth, he scooted them forward across the wood. In retaliation, Derek moved his papers back, and continued to ignore it otherwise.

Another little scooting shove, and the man's nostrils flared once more, and a little sound of frustrated exasperation came from that stubbled jaw, and he couldn't help himself.

His chest ached with it, the laughter he felt come out of him, and the man's eyes were wide again, looking up at him in equal parts startled and pleased with himself, a little hopeful maybe.

"Oh my God, Derek, just take the food!"

Lips pressing thin, the man watched him for a minute before reaching out, fingers wrapping around the cup so he could pull it to his lips. A tentative sip, but he caught the pleasured crinkling at the corner of his eyes, the column of his throat working as he took a wide swallow.

Quiet though, he was still quiet, watching him with those breathtaking eyes and that gorgeous mouth-and damnit, he really needed to not think that, that wasn't fair, not if Derek could smell his arousal.

"What do you want me to talk about."

Straightforward, to the point, it was good to see that some things didn't change at least.

Like Derek, Derek hadn't changed.

He was still just as tall, still just as broad, and his hair was still just as dark and his eyes just as impossibly, heartbreakingly pale as they had been the first time they had met.

Damn him, he wasn't allowed to look like that.

"You know what I want to talk about."

Pulling out on of the chairs that was in front of the man's desk –it was the same soft, plush leather as the ones he remembered sinking into in his father's office when he made sure the man actually ate a dinner that wasn't made out of grease or butter or cream, or anything somewhere in between. Like, veggies, nummy nummy in his father's tummy, no matter how pissy the man got about it.- he situated himself before any objection could be given.

And one was given, with the heavy look of Derek's face and the set of his shoulders, the grumble that started somewhere deep in his throat.

Holding a hand up, he gave the man a beseeching look, watchful and waiting till the grumbling had stopped and Derek was just glaring at him with those tired eyes.

"Stiles,"

"Eight years, Derek." Lifting one brow behind the dark rim of his glasses, he gave the other man a bit of a sour look. Unamused didn't even begin to cover it. "I think I deserve an explanation or two, or five."

He deserved more than that.

He wanted more than that, actually, but what he wanted and what he was going to get were two totally different sides of the scale.

He was no Lydia Whittemore, he didn't get every little thing he wanted in life.

His bank account would never be able to support that sort of lifestyle.

"I needed to keep you safe."

There was reluctance there, in the words the man said, but he seemed to agree with him at least to some degree, about him having a right to know.

Nodding his head slowly, Stiles waited, waited for him to continue, but more silence settled down upon them, and it felt thick on his skin. Heavy, and it made his shoulders sag, and slowly, just as slowly as he had nodded, he shook his head.

"Derek,"

A grunt.

He got a grunt in response, that was it.

Seriously?

"Derek," He tried again, eyes narrowed a bit in impatience, he watched the man as he took another drink of his coffee. Still, he refused to touch the food, and it made the younger man want to sigh. "Why did I need to be kept safe?"

The reaction, no matter how subtle, was instantaneous, and he leaned back a bit with widened eyes as the man's shoulders bunched even tighter and his eyebrows did an angry jerk down. There was a flare to his nostrils and a quick splash of cranberry to his eyes that washed out the grey-green, though it faded just as quickly as it had come.

"Derek?"

Jaw clenched, he heard it as the man's teeth ground together, and he knew what the man was saying before he even said it.

"You need to leave."

"Dere-"

"Stiles," It looked like it hurt, saying his name, and the man's jaw clenched up all the tighter. "You need to leave, now."

Eyes narrowing, he leaned forward, planting his hands on the desk and giving the man a glare. Two could play that game, two could be pissy and wounded and defensive. He had every right to be.

"No."

"Sti-"

"Oh no, you listen here Derek, I did not go through eight years of relocation for this. Scott was a dick to me, for months, and the rest of your beta's wouldn't even look my way. And you! I come to find out that you did it to protect me, because I'm 'the one good thing left in your life', and evidently I have to be pushed around to be kept safe!"

Flicking a hand in the man's direction, he went to grab the paper bag, because if Derek wasn't going to eat that epic smelling burrito, he sure as hell was.

Except, the twenty-eight year old grabbed it before he could, snatching it up and tugging it back a few inches on the desk so it was out of his reach.

Well then.

"Tell me why, Derek."

Silence, a crinkle of paper as the man moved the fucking food bag behind his desk, but there was silence all the same, and it made him scowl something awful and ugly.

"Tell me."

The click on the wall made a quiet ticking sound, and he clenched his fists as his irritation swelled to a new height.

Pushing his chair back, he swept a hand through his hair, giving the man a hot glare.

"Fine, I'll go ask Peter."

Before he could leave though, sneakers catching on the carpet and his glasses settling funny on his nose, the man decided to actually say something.

"They would have killed you."

"Excuse me?"

Eyes wide on the other man, he caught the pain expression that was there in those eyes, and it made him want to melt even as it made him want to cry, because had Derek always been that easy to read?

"They were going to kill you, if you didn't go away."

Slowly, not sure if he wanted to really ask, Stiles took a deep breath.

"Derek, who was going to kill me?"

Looking pained, closer to being sick than he had seen him since the wolfs bane bullet incident back in sophomore year, the man's fists clenched, and he made a low whining sound in the base of his throat that Stiles could barely hear. But he heard it, and that was the horrible part, because that was such a small sound, such a sad and lonely sound, that it made his insides churn.

"Derek?"

"Deucalion."

"Deu-" Eyes wide, he watched the man for a good few minutes in stunned silence, feeling his own stomach try to worm its way up and out of his throat. "Oh. Okay, shit, uhm, we-"

His phone gave a screech from inside his pocket, and both of them flinched as he dove for it, eyes a little wide and his heart hammering in his chest.

"Hello?"

_"Daddy?"_

Panic, more panic, just what he needed right now, because his daughter sounded small and quiet and scared, and this wasn't a good day at all.

"Julianna, baby, what's wrong?"

_"Aunt Lydia keeps getting sick, and she smells bad, and she told me not to tell Uncle Jackson, but what if she's sick and she dies like grandma?"_

Closing his eyes tight, he took a deep breath through his nose, as deep and calming as he could manage given the circumstances.

"Where are you guys?"

_"At grandpa's house. I'm using the emergency phone, and she told me not to, but this is an emergency Daddy!_"

"I know baby, I'll be there soon, alright? Just go get Aunt Lydia some animal crackers, can you do that for me, Bug?"

_"Yes Daddy. I love you."_

"Love you too."

Ending the call, he gave the wide eyed Alpha a look over his shoulder.

"This isn't done, Sourwolf, so don't think you're off the hook. We have a helluva lot to talk about."

No verbal response, and he let himself out of the office, completely missing the starstruck expression that settled on the mans face and the way he mouthed the snarky, sassy nickname.

"Sourwolf."

* * *

_The Manhattan sky had decided to unleash its holy terror of the season on him it seemed._

_He'd only been out of the building for five minutes -his professor had decided to keep him after and he couldn't tell the old man no under any circumstances- and he still had about a forty minute walk to get back to his apartment._

_Forty minutes, in the pouring rain without an umbrella._

_Damnit, his bag was going to be soaked._

_No, his everything was going to be soaked, completely through to the point that he'd be able to feel it in his bones._

_Phone ringing, that was probably getting wet too, but it vibrated in his pocket and if it was Lydia or Jackson, they would have his ass for not answering._

_Ducking under an awning, green and pink stripped for an ice cream place that was closed for the night, he shook his hands out before clutching for his phone.  
_

_"Hello?"_

_There was water dripping from his eyelashes, making a stream down his nose and pulling a sneeze from somewhere deep in his chest. Christ, rain sucked, he hated fall in Manhattan when it decided to rain after his late seminar, why did it always have to do this to him? _

_"Hello, Stiles, is it?"_

_Brow furrowing, he pulled the phone back a bit, looking at the screen with wide, confused eyes._

_Unknown number._

_"Who is this?"_

_"Oh, how rude of me. My name's Deucalion, but you can call me Duke."_

_"And uh, how can I help you, Duke?"_

_There was a chuckle from across the line, and somewhere across the street, a boom of thunder made him flinch._

_"Well, it's been brought to my attention that you have something that I want."_

_"If this is about the answers to Jroughnat's term paper, I can't help you."_

_"No, this isn't about a term paper, Stiles, though I do hear you're doing quite well in your graduate program."_

_"Excuse me?"_

_"See, I don't need your term paper, or your valedictorian speech, or even your apartment key, I've already been in your abode, and it's very...humble."_

_"Alright Duke, this isn't funny, what the fuck do you wa-"_

_"I just want your bloody, beating heart. And, you are the boy who runs with wolves, after all, so that shouldn't be too hard."_


	9. Chapter 9

**Don't mind me, I'm just all happy with myself over the fact that I confused CJ, nothing to see here folks!**

**So uh, warning, I don't have a damn clue how long this story is going to be? I'm literally just typing it, and I've got a basic idea of how it's going to end, but well, I just don't really know how long it'll be is the problem I guess. I'm going to go ahead and say thank you to anybody who sticks with me on this though, okay? **

**Because your all beautiful and wonderful and I love you!**

**But, here, we have a bit of a set back/filler, because I'm taking finals this week and I'm not putting much effort into this, I'm sorry but it's true. **

**I'm already failing math, why bother?**

**But, read, review, favorite, please and thank you all!**

**Does anyone actually read this, or am I just wasting my time?**

* * *

_The Manhattan sky had decided to unleash its holy terror of the season on him it seemed._

_He'd only been out of the building for five minutes -his professor had decided to keep him after and he couldn't tell the old man no under any circumstances- and he still had about a forty minute walk to get back to his apartment._

_Forty minutes, in the pouring rain without an umbrella._

_Damnit, his bag was going to be soaked._

_No, his everything was going to be soaked, completely through to the point that he'd be able to feel it in his bones._

_Phone ringing, that was probably getting wet too, but it vibrated in his pocket and if it was Lydia or Jackson, they would have his ass for not answering._

_Ducking under an awning, green and pink stripped for an ice cream place that was closed for the night, he shook his hands out before clutching for his phone.  
_

_"Hello?"_

_There was water dripping from his eyelashes, making a stream down his nose and pulling a sneeze from somewhere deep in his chest. Christ, rain sucked, he hated fall in Manhattan when it decided to rain after his late seminar, why did it always have to do this to him? _

_"Hello, Stiles, is it?"_

_Brow furrowing, he pulled the phone back a bit, looking at the screen with wide, confused eyes._

_Unknown number._

_"Who is this?"_

_"Oh, how rude of me. My name's Deucalion, but you can call me Duke."_

_"And uh, how can I help you, Duke?"_

_There was a chuckle from across the line, and somewhere across the street, a boom of thunder made him flinch._

_"Well, it's been brought to my attention that you have something that I want."_

_"If this is about the answers to Jroughnat's term paper, I can't help you."_

_"No, this isn't about a term paper, Stiles, though I do hear you're doing quite well in your graduate program."_

_"Excuse me?"_

_"See, I don't need your term paper, or your valedictorian speech, or even your apartment key, I've already been in your abode, and it's very...humble."_

_"Alright Duke, this isn't funny, what the fuck do you wa-"_

_"I just want your bloody, beating heart. And, you are the boy who runs with wolves, after all, so that shouldn't be too hard."_

* * *

_Six years ago_

Manhattan was beautiful.

Like, he knew that, he did.

He knew that it was beautiful, and that was something that he usually took into account as he walked the forty fucking minutes back to his apartment, all tired and just done, so completely done with the world that it wasn't funny.

Except, standing under the green and pink awning, with the thunder making his skin vibrate, it wasn't beautiful.

It was dark, and evil, and just as terrifying as the voice that gave a chuckle against his ear.

_"Now, are you listening, Little Red?"_

Face feeling hot with his fear while the rest of him was cold, he gripped his dripped bag a little tighter, and backed himself into the corner behind him, eyes wide with frantic observation.

The air was grey, wet with all of it, and he felt more of a chill than any autumn breeze could ever be responsible for.

_"I'm going to eat your heart right out of your chest while you're still screaming. And that little pack of yours? I'm going to make them watch as I devour you, before my pack devours them in turn, one at a time, starting with the girl. She's a pretty girl, isn't she? All feisty and intelligent."_

Throat feeling tight, he forced himself to breath, chest fluttering with the heavy anxiety and panic that had started to ripple through him, growing with every word the man said.

He couldn't manage to say anything though, couldn't find his words or his tongue, or any air for that matter really.

He could only stare in front of him, across the street and into the darkness where there was nothing, absolutely nothing but darkness and flickering neon lights that needed more juice. It was chilling, staring into the darkness, and with a slow, rattling breath, he felt a fresh claw of fear, for while he stared, it felt as if the darkness in turn was staring back at him with hungry eyes.

_"Run, Stiles."_

The line went dead with another chuckle and a click, and with frozen muscles, he just stood there for a second.

The next crack of lightning, bright in the growing darkness, had a choked sound pulling from his throat, and as his body gave a jerk and his fingers started to tremble, he barely managed to shove his phone into his pocket.

And then he was running, running before he even knew that he really was running, because he had been told to run, and the fearful, terrified part of him still knew an Alpha order when he heard it, wolf or not.

The pavement was slick, and he slipped to his knees only a block from his apartment, chest heaving and his heart pounding in his ears, boiling away in his veins and there was a bitter taste of vomit in the back of his throat, stomach tight and sour somewhere low in his gut.

Pushing himself up, knees bloody from the fall and the skin, palms raw, he pushed on, taking the stairs up into his apartment two at a time, grappling for the railing to keep himself from toppling over in his haste. Twenty years old, he was too young to die, too young to feel this afraid for his life, too tired for this, too young for this.

His apartment was unlocked though, sending warning bell after warning bell off in his head, and he stumbled inside the door, only noticing once he was inside that it was actually unlocked, and his keys were in his pocket still.

But the door had opened, easily, without a hitch, and that made his breath do a painful jig in his chest as his heart clenched.

It was dark inside, darker than he ever kept his place, and his skin began to crawl as he pressed his back against the closed door, heart pounding, heavy and wicked and _loud_ in his ears.

His knees threatened to give out as the light across the room flicked on, and a young, barefooted woman sat perched in his favorite chair.

Her face was sharp, would have maybe been considered sweet had her beauty not been feral, and her mouth was twisted up into something vile.

"Well, well, Duke told me you were a cutie, but he never said you were this cute."

Pressing farther back against the door, he took a sharp, shuddering breath, feeling his insides give a quake that matched his tremors on the outside.

Who are you?

Why are you here?

Why me?

What have I done?

Things he wanted to ask, things he needed to know, but he couldn't get his jaw to work, couldn't find his tongue. Instead, he could only watch her with petrified, widened eyes and a thundering heart as her eyes bled red and the nails she had been inspecting turned long and curled like talons.

She grinned at him, sharp and feral and proud, uncurling from his chair and waltzing her way across his small living room, her bare feet making not a sound except for the clicking of her toenails on the floor.

She was close enough to touch him then, and touch him she did, trailing her claws across his cheek and sliding down to his throat as she made a content sound somewhere low in her throat. "Such a pretty little scrap, aren't you?"

The voice she spoke in was soft, and he shuddered, keeping his eyes open even though everything in him wanted to close them, to shut them tight and pretend that none of this was real. This wasn't what he was supposed to be worrying about, he'd already had a hell of a week, a hell of a month. He's worked his ass off in his classes, drank too much and managed to get it into a girl from his philosophy class without actually wrapping it up. She was pregnant, the girl from his philosophy class whose name he couldn't think of off of the top of his head, and he'd had a conversation with his father on the phone about that.

Her claws dug into the meat of his shoulder then, and even as he grunted and swore, she dragged him, turning swiftly and throwing him.

The lamp that he hit clattered to the ground, shattered, and his apartment was dark once more, and his heart was thundering in his ears and his body was ringing from the pain even as he pushed himself to his feet.

Growling, snarling, she was on him, leaping at him from the back of the couch and he let out a yelp, trying to scamper away as best he could.

Fingers stretching, it was close, it was there, he knew it was, and even as he stretched, trying to pull himself, her nails dug into the backs of his knees and pulled, dragging him back as his fingers wrapped around the handle of it.

Searing pain shot through his body, hot and wet and he wanted to cry, but the gun was heavy in his hands and when she flipped him over, her hands slick with his blood and tight around his throat, he fired.

It hit her in the shoulder, booming and sharp, and she howled from it, nearly crushing his trachea before she was gone in a flurry of motion and breaking glass.

Rain from the broken window pouring in, it pelted down on him, stinging where he had bled and where he had been wounded, and the back of his head was wet, sticky in a way he didn't want to think about.

His legs hurt, hurt so fucking bad and he didn't want to try and stand, so he pulled himself, crawling away from the window and the wet and the cold, dripping with blood and pain. Fingers shaking, he managed to find his phone somewhere in his pocket, and his breath made a choking sound as it started to ring.

_"Stilinski, I'm a little busy right no-"_

"J-Jackson!"

_"Stiles?"_

He sounded panicked now, far from angry, his closest friend, and he curled on himself a little as his head kept pounding and his legs kept screaming in pain. There was glass in his back, and his chest hurt from where he had hit the wall, and had he had enough thought, he would have feared he'd broken something.

"The-here was a we-a wom-a wolf, i-in my apar-artment."

_"Shit, fuck, you're hur-Lydia, call an ambulance, it's Stil-hey, no, Stiles, breathe, don't do this to me!"_

* * *

_Now_

Settling on the floor, back pressed against the bathroom door and a bit of sigh on his lips, Stiles took a deep breath.

The house he had grown up in was quiet, comparatively so to the war that had been waging in his head ever since he had left Derek's office, and it was a comforting bit of quiet.

Domestic.

From around the corner, her brown eyes wide and her cheeks flushed and splattered with crumbs from her animal crackers, his daughter stared at him. Her hair looked like a halo, a milkmaid braid of gold around her head that he'd sat and done that morning, with tired eyes and fingers that had ached by the end of it, but she had been happy.

Now though, she just looked worried, watching him with fear, like her world was about to fall apart in front of her.

Smiling, he shooed her along with a little wave of his hand, and she nodded after a minute, scampering away.

Daddy's got this.

Her feet made little sounds on the stairs, and he waited till the sounds stopped, counting them and keeping quiet till she'd hit all twenty eight and was on the bottom level of the house, no doubt burrowing into the heavy afghan on the couch. m

"Lydia?"

Head tipping against the door, his legs were pulled up a bit, wrists resting on the bends of his knees as he looked up at the door jam.

There were shuffling sounds from inside, she was barefooted, she'd been wearing heels that morning, and he would have heard the clack of them against the bathroom tiles otherwise.

"Go away."

Her voice was wet, watery and thick, and his brow furrowed in concern.

"Princess, what's wrong?"

Silence, and he frowned harder, wiggling a bit till he could look at the door knob instead, watching it encase it turned and he had to catch himself from falling back onto the floor.

"Baby?"

A sharp inhale, and there was a thump against the door -one of her heels, pumpkin suede and high, and it was probably scuffed now. She'd complain about it for days, they were her favorite pair.

"Don-don't say that!"

Mouth tugging down at the corners, he stared at the knob with a sharp thought, and then-

Oh.

Ooh.

Face softening, he sighed, turning so he was on his knees, facing the door.

"Lydia, open the door."

She made an ugly sound from the other side of it, and for a moment, he thought she would leave him out there. But the latch clicked out of place, and he waited a second till her shuffling had stopped before creaking the door open.

"Oh, Lydia."

Her hair was undone, the curls that it had formed that morning distraught and frizzed and broken, and her mascara had made track marks down her pale cheeks. Her nose was red, and her eyes were bloodshot, and her nose made snotty sounds with every breath she tried to take to calm herself. Her chest and throat flushed, her fingers shaking, and her ears had burned a bright and shamed red.

She was beautiful.

Sliding across the slick floor on his knees, he gathered his friend up tight into his arms, and if she curled against his chest and wrapped her arms around his throat, he made no comment on it.

The test was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, but from the looks of it, she'd refused to touch it, too worked up and upset.

Sighing, he pushed her hair back gently, her head tucked under his chin and her heart racing against his side.

Fingers trickling across her back, he held her as she started to settle down, breaths gradually deepening to a tempo that he found more easy and less alarming.

"You want me to check?"

Her nod was sharp, though delayed by a few minutes, and her head his the bottom of his jaw hard enough that his teeth caught the side of his tongue, but he kept his pain to himself.

Keeping her balanced in his arms, he wiggled them forward, stretching his free arm till his fingers wrapped around the handle of the test and he could pull it over.

A pink plus sign stared back at him, making him blink.

"Stiles?"

Her voice was still wet, still thick, and her lipstick was probably smeared on his throat, but it wasn't like it was the first time she'd done that.

"Am I the uncle, or the God father?"

"Oh my god!"

Later, once he'd gotten her calmed down again, and had passed her off to Jackson when the confused, concerned werewolf had darted up the stairs and into the bathroom, he'd plucked out his phone, sneaking a picture of them in a way that really wasn't all that sneaky.

Dialing a number he'd learned quickly though, back from when his father had still held the position and his mother had still been alive, he bypassed the main desk, listening as it rang before the click hit his ears.

"Deputy Ha-"

"Twenty minutes, I want you at Maggie's Diner, got it?"

"Sti-"

"Twenty minutes Hale, or I'm shooting you."


	10. Chapter 10

**Story time!**

**I uh, actually meant for there to be a sex scene in here? But I never got around to it, because I'm not in a smutty mood? I'm in more of a sore mood, car crashes do that to you?**

**Yeah.**

**But uh, here, I gave you some bro-feels to confuse your hate-Scott feels! So have fun with thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat. **

**Hey, so, do me all a favor my lovelies? Go read Sweet John for me, okie? Thanks.**

**I really like reviews. Like, I really really like reviews, and I would appreciate them right now too, like none other. Not feeling too hot. Steering wheel shaped bruise on my torso can attest to that. **

* * *

Sitting in the back corner booth of Maggie's wasn't anything new.

Nothing new, nothing scary, and certainly nothing to get his panties all in a bunch over -no thank you Lydia, he was not wearing a black thong again. That was a one time thing, a one time drunk thing that he was never, ever doing again. ...Maybe. (we'll talk about it later Lydia, stop texting me and go back to puking. Make Jacks hold your hair.)

His phone helped, a little, and he was chuckling down at it, shaking his head with a smile as his free hand fiddled with the straw in his water.

It had only taken him about five minutes to get out to Maggie's, which was saying something surely, and he'd been sitting there for another five.

Linda had come by, twice, a bit of a sympathetic smile on her red painted lips, and her nails had made quick work of scrubbing at his short hair as she cooed to him.

"Got a hot date?"

"Eh."

Unimpressed, she pressed one of her hips against the table, staring down at him with the coffee pot in one hand.

"Ain't seen you this fidgety since you stood up Miss Martin."

"Her name's Whittemore now, Lee, and no, I don't have a date."

Lips pursing, she nodded, muttering something about Jackson finally making an honest woman out of her before patting his shoulder and sashaying away.

"You didn't deny the hot part!"

"Linda!"

She was laughing at him though, dark ponytail bobbing as she had her fun and went to talk to some of the other patrons. Bored, he took another sip of his water, teeth digging into the pliable plastic of the straw and jerking it around once, twice, before he settled for chewing on it.

There wasn't much to do, not really, and he opened up his email with a sigh, scowling at the sight of email after email after email from his boss.

The first two were simple, wanting to know how his father was doing, and just wanting to do a general checkup over all.

The third one had him scowling harder, and with a sigh, he dropped his head down and rubbed at his eyes.

Forced leave, he had enough vacation piled up that he hadn't taken for the past few years, and family emergency or not, he'd been pushed onto forced vacation time.

Evidently he was too stressed.

Well no shit Principle Mackers, his father had just had a heart attack, and no one had informed him that his class had an EasyBake oven, of course he was going to be stressed!

Dimly, he noticed that it was Monday, and with another groan, he dropped his head to the table beside his phone, arms splaying out at an awkward play of angles. It shoved his glasses into his nose, the black plastic biting, but he just sighed, scrubbing his nose a little harder against the table top before letting out a sigh. Quickly, his breath put a fog of condensation across the table, and he closed his eyes, fingers doing a drumming little dance against the cool surface.

"Evenin' Deputy!"

Swearing, groaning, he didn't bother lifting his head, just shifted his weight enough that he could throw an arm up into the air in hopes of being seen.

He was, evidently, if the sounds of rustling fabric and boots on the linoleum, of the other side of the booth crinkling and the table dipping a little where anything to go by.

Sighing, frustrated and flustered and done for the day, he lifted his head, cupping his chin and giving the Alpha a miserable look.

Well, the man looked a bit uncomfortable, at least.

Thank God for small favors.

"You wanted to talk?"

Gruff, uncomfortable, the slightly frustrated, constipated look on the other man's face was something familiar, and he felt himself smiling a little at the sight of it, because at least some things never changed.

"Yeah, I-" Breaking off, he smiled at Linda, nodding his head as she set a cup of coffee down in front of the Deputy, no questions asked before sashaying away the same way she had come back to them. Lifting a brow at Derek in a bit of question, the other man shrugged, and took a swallow of his coffee seemingly out of defiance.

Clearing his throat, he tied again, head bobbing a bit as he nodded.

"Deucalion."

A low rumble sounded from the mans chest, one that would have gone unheard if Stiles wasn't the type of guy who was used to hearing those sounds, whether it be from Jackson, or from his five year old trying to mimic her uncle.

Snapping his fingers, waving them a little bit at the mans face, he let out a quiet hum to get the man's attention once more.

Slowly, the growling stopped, and the werewolf watched him with that same unimpressed expression, brows lifted high.

"Derek?"

"No."

"Derek, I got the shit beat out of me, in my apartment, by his bitch. I'm pretty sure I deserve to know what the fuck happened."

The coffee mug in the mans hand gave a slight cracking sound, and Stiles' winced, shoulders tensing a bit in a hint of exasperation as he watched those familiar eyes bleed red.

"What?"

Waving his hand again, he shrugged, directing his gaze down to his water.

"Story for a different time. But uh, yeah, I've got some history with Deucalion, so,"

Quiet, he could feel the other man watching him, hardly subtle, and his gaze felt like fire on his skin.

"They've been taken care of."

Another wince, and he shut his eyes, shoulders bowing down as his fingers fiddled with the straw. That was a lovely thing to hear, a great way to phrase that, because really, that could mean a number of things.

Except, he knew Derek, sort of.

Enough to know what that meant anyways.

"They're in pieces, aren't they?"

He got a gruff nod in response, and his own head bobbed slowly in understanding.

Silence slowly settled on them then though, coating his skin and making the air feel a bit heavy in a crackling sort of way. There was tension there, between them, in the way that Derek wouldn't meet his eyes and how he couldn't seem to keep his _off_ Derek in general.

Damnit, he shouldn't be allowed to look that good in a uniform.

"So..."

He got a grunt for his troubles.

A grunt, that was it, nothing more, and he scowled a bit.

Fine, two could play that game.

"Does my Alpha need to talk to you, since we're in your territory?"

The man flinched back as if he'd struck him, eyes going wide and his nostrils flaring.

It took him a minute, and even then, he was staring at Stiles like he'd grown another head, and so he sighed, speaking slowly.

"Do you need to talk to Jackson?"

Those eyes narrowed on him, and the other man shook his head sharply, making him nod again.

"Alr-"

_"All available units, we've got a 221s, code 3, all available units, please respond. 928 Main Street, Beacon Hills National Bank, we've got a 221s, possible hostage situation. All available units, please respond."_

Paling, sitting up a little straighter, Stiles watched with wide eyes as the other man jerked, snapping a hand down to his side where the radio was. At least, he had the decency to give him an apologetic look, and so he returned with a tight, strained smile.

"Go save some lives, we'll talk later."

* * *

That later, lasted about two days.

He'd been having a perfectly fine time that morning, aside from the fact that he'd had to have a sit down with his Dad's doctor, and a real serious talking had ensued.

For the next six months, his father wasn't allowed to live alone, his dietary habits and his own sense of health couldn't be trusted, and the doctors wanted him under constant watch.

Six months that his Dad would have to be babysat, because he couldn't be trusted for the time being to live on his own.

Upon discharge, scheduled three days from now, he would have seven different medications that he would have to take daily, some with every meal, and others even in between, to get his heart and the rest of his system working back to its full potential.

His meals would have to be monitored, and he would have to go in every two weeks to get a check up done until the doctor said otherwise. Any sort of pain he felt, any tightness in his chest or numbness to his limbs, and someone had to take note of it, time and date and everything, and not only that, but someone had to tell his doctor.

And he couldn't just leave his Dad in someone's hands.

He couldn't leave him like that, not with how John was hurting, not with how he was weak and beaten and down, no matter how stubborn and strong and fine he made himself out to be.

He was a Stilinski, and Stiles knew better than anyone how Stilinski men were.

Stubborn, persistent, bull headed and ornery with the best of them, and as well as he knew, they had a knack for talking their way both in and out of anything.

That was beside the point though, and it went completely without saying that he would have to have a long talk with not only his three pack members, but also his daughter, because things weren't going to be the same anymore.

No, the point, was that Derek had told _his_ pack, evidently, that Stiles' was in town.

Really, he was surprised it had taken this long for something to happen, but the last thing he had expected when he got out of talking with his Dad's cardiologist, was to be wrapped up tight in a hug by _Scott_.

That had been...not all together unpleasant, because he had missed the other man so much it hurt sometimes, and Scott still looked every bit the fluffy, dopey puppy he had been back in high school. Except his jaw was stronger, and his face was thinner, and there was something tired and worldly and excited in his eyes that had matched the grin that had split the man's face in two.

He'd missed him, fuck, he'd be lying if he said he hadn't missed the man, and knew damn well that Lydia still kept in contact with Allison, because _he_ still kept in contact with Allison, because she was Allison and it was hard not to.

Instinctive, he'd clasped the man in return, melting against him at the feeling of home and content and memories, before he'd stiffened in shock, because Scott was hugging him.

Scott was hugging him, and Allison's texts and emails had kept him filled in enough to know that Scott had missed him too.

And Derek had...Derek had forced Scott's hand.

It was Derek's fault that Scott had pushed him away, and Deucalion's fault that Derek had had to push Scott.

Except, he didn't really know who had pushed Deucalion -maybe the man's own greed, or the fact that he was the type of asshat who just really, really liked to fuck with people, that didn't really seem like too far fetched of an idea, to be equal parts honest and fair-, and the man was in _pieces_, so he couldn't very well ask.

"Sco-"

"God, you don't know how sorry I am, I never wanted to say that, or-or make you upset or hurt you, but Derek and I-we, you couldn't get hurt, and they were going to kill you if we didn't get you to leave and oh my God Stiles, I couldn't let you get killed, you're my brother, I couldn't just-"

Pushing his hands up a bit, there wasn't really much he could do, not when the werewolf had a tight enough grip on him that he wasn't going anywhere for the moment, and so he sighed, awkward and thick wondering just what in the fuck was it with this town and dicking around with his emotions.

Patting Scott's back, trying to be as comforting as he could despite his confusion and tired frustration because the other man was _trembling_ against him, like he was going to _cry_, and that was, no, no matter how frustrated and hurt and angry he had ever been, the thought of his be-this man crying just didn't settle well in his stomach.

"I'm alive though."

Alive, and feeling awkward as fuck, because he was supposed to hate this man, was supposed to be pissed, and hurt, because he had been hurt, and fuck it all, Jackson was going to be pissed. Lydia was going to be pissed. Danny was...Danny had been traipsing around Isaac, actually, who had showed up on the doorstep that morning, so he didn't really know _what_ Danny was at the moment, but it was probably lucky.

Like, really lucky, in a way that totally wasn't fair considering his own balls felt pretty blue.

Patting the mans back still, he took a breath through his nose, rolling his eyes heavenward, because really, when had this become his life?

"Derek said you were back, and I was so fucki-I'm so fucking happy, you don't even- and Erica was so happy she started crying, but pregnant women cry all the time, but still!"

Nodding slowly, there was something thumping against his back, and it made him sigh a little bit.

Scott was...Scott, even after all these years.

Some things never really changed then.

"Scott," He spoke slowly, like he was talking to a forgetful child, because really, if nothing else, that was what Scott was, and no matter the fact that he should have been angry, because he had ever right to be angry -he did, didn't he? No, wait, maybe he didn't, because it wasn't really Scott's fault, except Scott had done it, so it was Scott's fault. But Scott hadn't wanted to do it, because he didn't actually like hurting people, so it wasn't his fault. Except it was. But it really wasn't, right? Fuck, this was so confusing, he needed to talk to Lydia when she stopped freaking out about being a soon to be whale-, he really, honestly couldn't find it in himself to be angry anymore. "Are you supposed to be doing something right now?"

A nurse down the hall was smiling at them, a bit of a grin, actually, and fuck his life, but that was her phone taking a picture of them, wasn't it?

"Oh."

Snorting, he pulled his limbs back to himself and straightened his glasses as the other -shorter, holy shit when had he gotten taller than Scott? This was epic on so many levels- man gave him a wide blink.

Said blink morphed into a grin, sweet and slow and very puppy-like in nature, and yeah, some things never changed.

"I'm bringing Mom lunch!"

"I can see that. Why don't you go do that, and I'm going to run my errands, alright?"

Perking a bit, his friend -could he call Scott that yet? Were they friends still/already/again? Yeah, no, he needed to talk to Lydia, soon, girls knew how to deal with this shit. Or maybe he could talk to Allison, Allison was nice to talk to- gave him a hopeful look, uneven jaw dropped a bit in his smile.

"I can see you again though, right?"

"Yeah."

That seemed to be enough, because that grin just got bigger, and dopier, and more puppy like, and Scott was giving him another tight hug before ambling off.

Staring after the man for a minute, Stiles gave a slow blink, nodding his head after a moment.

"Alright. I'm...just...yeah."


End file.
